CAN  SUCH. 

THINGS  BE,? 


WHMHH 


/ 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
JOHN  and  ROSE  ETTA  SAMPSON 

in  Honor  of 
WALTER  and  ELISE  HAAS, 


c 


\ 


\ 


Can  Such  Things  Be  ? 


AMBROSE  BIERCE 

Author   of  "  In  the  Midst  of  Life,"  "  Black  Beetles 
in  Amber,"  "  Fantastic  Fables,"  Etc. 


Washington 

THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

431  Eleventh  Street 

MCMIII 


Copyright,  1893,  by 
THE  CASSELL  PUBLISHING  Co. 

Copyright,  1903,  by 
THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


PREFACE 


Of  some  of  the  tales  in  this  new  and  author 
ized  edition  the  author  wishes  to  explain  that 
their  appearance  in  other  forms  since  the  original 
edition  of  1893  has  been  without  his  knowledge 
or  assent.  A.  B. 

Washington,  D.  C., 

February  10,  1903.  » 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  DEATH  OF  HALPIN  FRAYSER,  ...  i 

THE  MOCKING  BIRD, 27 

.  MY  FAVORITE  MURDER, 37 

ONE  OFFICER,  ONE  MAN, 51 

THE  MAN  OUT  OF  THE  NOSE, 61 

AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  BROWNVILLE,       ....  73 

JUPITER  DOKE,  BRIGADIER  GENERAL,      ....  91 

THE  FAMOUS  GILSON  BEQUEST, 107 

THE  STORY  OF  A  CONSCIENCE, 121 

THE  SECRET  OF  MACARGER'S  GULCH,  ....  135 

THE  MAJOR'S  TALE,         .......  147 

A  PSYCHOLOGICAL  SHIPWRECK, 159 

ONE  KIND  OF  OFFICER: 

I.    ONE  OF  THE  USES  OF  CIVILITY,  .        .        .        .167 
II.     UNDER   WHAT    CIRCUMSTANCES    MEN    DO    NOT 

WISH  TO  BE  SHOT, 169 

III.  How  TO  PLAY  THE  CANNON  WITHOUT  NOTES,  173 

IV.  To  INTRODUCE  GENERAL  MASTERSON,         .        .  176 
V.     How  SOUNDS  CAN  FIGHT  SHADOWS,       .        .  179 

VI     WHY,  BEING  AFFRONTED  BY  A,  IT  is  NOT  BEST 

TO  AFFRONT  B, 183 

THE  APPLICANT, 187 

ONE  OF  THE  TWINS, 195 

THE  NIGHT-DOINGS  AT  "  DEADMAN'S,"        .        .        .  207 

THE  WIDOWER  TURMORE, 221 

GEORGE  THURSTON  :  THREE  EPISODES  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A 

BRAVE  MAN,          ......  231 

iii 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

JOHN   BARTINE'S   WATCH:    A   STORY   WRITTEN   FROM 

NOTES  OF  A  PHYSICIAN,           ....  239 

THE  REALM  OF  THE  UNREAL, 249 

A  BABY  TRAMP, 263 

SOME  HAUNTED  HOUSES: 

"THE  ISLE  OF  PINES," 273 

A  FRUITLESS  ASSIGNMENT, 280 

THE  THING  AT  NOLAN, 285 

BODIES  OF  THE  DEAD  : 

THAT  OF  GRANNY  MAGONE, 293 

A  LIGHT  SLEEPER, 296 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  JOHN  FARQUHARSON,  .        .        .  298 

DEAD  AND  "GONE," 301 

A  COLD  NIGHT, 303 

A  CREATURE  OF  HABIT,        .....  306 

•'  MYSTERIOUS  DISAPPEARANCES  ": 

THE  DIFFICULTY  OF  CROSSING  A  FIELD,  .        .        .  309 

AN  UNFINISHED  RACE, 313 

CHARLES  ASHMORE'S  TRAIL, 315 


CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 


THE  DEATH  OF  HALPIN 
FRAYSER. 

I. 

For  by  death  is  wrought  greater  change  than  hath  been  shown. 
Whereas  in  general  the  spirit  that  removed  cometh  back  upon 
occasion,  and  is  sometimes  seen  of  those  in  flesh  (appearing  in  the 
form  of  the  body  it  bore),  yet  it  hath  happened  that  the  veritable 
body  without  the  spirit  hath  walked.  And  it  is  attested  of  those 
encountering  who  have  lived  to  speak  thereon,  that  a  lich  so  raised 
up  hath  no  natural  affection,  nor  remembrance  thereof,  but  only 
hate.  Also,  it  is  known  that  some  spirits  which  in  life  were 
benign  become  by  death  evil  altogether. — Hali. 

ONE  dark  night  in  midsummer  a  man  waking 
from  a  dreamless  sleep  in  a  forest  in  the  Napa 
Valley,  lifted  his  head  from  the  earth,  and  staring 
a  few  moments  into  the  blackness,  said :  "Cath 
erine  Larue."  He  said  nothing  more;  no  reason 
was  known  to  him  why  he  should  have  said  so 
much. 

The  man  was  Halpin  Frayser.  He  lived  in 
St.  Helena,  but  where  he  lives  now  is  uncertain, 
for  he  is  dead.  One  who  practices  sleeping  in  the 


2  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

woods  with  nothing  under  him  but  the  dry  leaves 
and  the  damp  earth,  and  nothing  over  him  but 
the  branches  from  which  the  leaves  have  fallen, 
and  the  sky  from  which  the  earth  has  fallen,  can 
not  hope  for  great  longevity,  and  Frayser  had 
already  attained  the  age  of  thirty-two.  There 
are  people  in  this  world,  millions  of  people,  and 
far  and  away  the  best  people,  who  regard  that 
as  a  very  advanced  age.  They  are  the  children. 
To  those  who  view  the  voyage  of  life  from  the 
port  of  departure,  the  bark  that  has  accomplished 
any  considerable  distance  appears  already  in  close 
approach  to  the  further  shore.  However,  it  is 
not  certain  that  Halpin  Frayser  came  to  his 
death  by  exposure. 

He  had  been  all  day  in  the  hills  west  of  the 
Napa  Valley,  looking  for  doves  and  such  small 
game  as  was  in  season.  Late  in  the  afternoon  it 
had  come  on  to  be  cloudy,  and  he  had  lost  his 
bearings ;  and  although  he  had  only  to  go  always 
downhill — everywhere  the  way  to  safety  when 
one  is  lost — the  absence  of  trails  had  so  impeded 
him  that  he  was  overtaken  by  night  while  still  in 
the  forest.  Unable  in  the  darkness  to  penetrate 
the  thickets  of  manzanita  and  other  undergrowth, 
utterly  bewildered  and  overcome  with  fatigue,  he 
had  lain  down  near  the  root  of  a  large  madrofto 
and  fallen  into  a  dreamless  sleep.  It  was  hours 
later,  in  the  very  middle  of  the  night,  that  one  of 
God's  mysterious  messengers,  gliding  ahead  of 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  HALF  IN  FRA  YSER.  3 

the  incalculable  host  of  his  companions  who 
swept  westward  with  the  dawn  line,  pronounced 
the  awakening  word  in  the  ear  of  the  sleeper, 
who,  as  we  have  noted,  sat  upright  and  spoke,  he 
knew  not  why,  a  name,  he  knew  not  whose. 

Halpin  Frayser  was  not  much  of  a  philosopher, 
nor  a  scientist.  The  circumstance  that,  waking 
from  a  deep  sleep  at  night  in  the  midst  of  a  for 
est,  he  had  mentioned  aloud  a  name  that  he  had 
not  in  memory,  and  hardly  had  in  mind,  did  not 
arouse  an  enlightened  curiosity  to  investigate  the 
phenomenon.  He  thought  it  odd,  and  with  a 
little  perfunctory  shiver,  as  if  in  deference  to  a 
numerical  presumption  that  the  night  was  chill, 
he  lay  down  again  and  went  to  sleep.  But  his 
sleep  was  no  longer  dreamless. 

He  thought  he  was  walking  along  a  dusty  road 
that  showed  white  in  the  gathering  darkness  of  a 
summer  night.  Whence  and  whither  it  led,  and 
why  he  traveled  it,  he  did'  not  know,  though  all 
seemed  simple  and  natural,  as  is  the  way  in 
dreams ;  for  in  the  Land  Beyond  the  Bed  surprises 
cease  from  troubling  and  the  judgment  is  at  rest. 
Soon  he  came  to  a  parting  of  the  ways ;  leading 
from  the  highway  was  a  road  less  traveled,  having 
the  appearance,  indeed,  of  having  been  long  aban 
doned,  because,  he  thought,  it  led  to  something 
evil;  yet  he  turned  into  it  without  hesitation, 
impelled  by  some  imperious  necessity. 

As  he   pressed  forward    he  became   conscious 


4  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

that  his  way  was  haunted  by  malevolent  exist 
ences,  invisible,  and  whom  he  could  not  definitely 
figure  to  his  mind.  From  among  the  trees  on 
either  side  he  caught  broken  and  incoherent 
whispers  in  a  strange  tongue  which  yet  he  partly 
understood.  They  seemed  to  him  fragmentary 
utterances  of  a  monstrous  conspiracy  against  his 
body  and  his  soul.  It  was  now  long  after  night 
fall,  yet  the  interminable  forest  through  which  he 
journeyed  was  lit  with  a  wan  glimmer,  having  no 
point  of  diffusion,  for  in  its  mysterious  lumina- 
tion  nothing  cast  a  shadow.  A  shallow  pool  in 
the  guttered  depression  of  an  old  wheel  rut,  as 
from  a  recent  rain,  met  his  eye  with  a  crimson 
gleam.  He  stooped  and  plunged  his  hand  into  it. 
It  stained  his  fingers;  it  was  blood!  Blood,  he 
then  observed,  was  about  him  everywhere.  The 
weeds  growing  rankly  by  the  roadside  showed  it 
in  blots  and  splashes  on  their  big,  broad  leaves. 
Patches  of  dry  dust  between  the  wheelways  were 
pitted  and  spattered  as  with  a  red  rain.  Defiling 
the  trunks  of  the  trees  were  broad  maculations  of 
crimson,  and  blood  dripped  like  dew  from  their 
foliage.  All  this  he  observed  with  a  terror, 
which,  however,  seemed  not  incompatible  with 
the  fulfillment  of  a  natural  expectation.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  it  was  all  in  expiation  of 
some  crime  which,  though  conscious  of  his  guilt, 
he  could  not  rightly  remember.  To  the  menaces 
and  mysteries  of  his  surroundings  the  conscious- 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  HALPltf  PR  A  YSER.  5 

ness  was  an  added  horror.  Vainly  he  sought,  by 
tracing  life  backward  in  memory,  to  reproduce 
the  moment  of  his  sin  ;  scenes  and  incidents  came 
crowding  tumultuously  into  his  mind,  one  picture 
effacing  another,  or  commingling  with  it  in  con 
fusion  and  obscurity,  but  nowhere  could  he  catch 
a  glimpse  of  what  he  sought.  The  failure  aug 
mented  his  terror;  he  felt  as  one  who  has  mur 
dered  in  the  dark,  not  knowing  why  nor  whom. 
So  frightful  was  the  situation — the  mysterious 
light  burned  with  so  silent  and  awful  a  menace ; 
the  noxious  plants,  the  trees  that  by  common 
consent  are  invested  with  a  melancholy  or  baleful 
character,  so  openly  in  his  sight  conspired  against 
his  peace ;  from  overhead  and  all  about  came  so 
audible  and  startling  whispers  and  the  sighs  of 
creatures  so  obviously  not  of  earth — that  he  could 
endure  it  no  longer,  and  with  a  great  effort  to 
break  some  malign  spell  that  bound  his  faculties 
to  silence  and  inaction,  he  shouted  with  the  full 
strength  of  his  lungs!  His  voice  broken,  it 
seemed,  into  an  infinite  multitude  of  unfamiliar 
sounds,  went  babbling  and  stammering  away  into 
the  distant  reaches  of  the  forest,  died  into 
silence,  and  all  was  as  before.  But  he  had  made 
a  beginning  at  resistance  and  was  encouraged. 
He  said : 

"I  will  not  submit  unheard.  There  may  be 
powers  that  are  not  malignant  traveling  this 
accursed  road.  I  shall  leave  them  a  record  and 


6  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE! 

an  appeal.  I  shall  relate  my  wrongs,  the  perse- 
cutions  that  I  endure — I,  a  helpless  mortal,  a 
penitent,  an  unoffending  poet !"  Halpin  Frayser 
was  a  poet  only  as  he  was  a  penitent :  in  his 
dream. 

Taking  from  his  clothing  a  small  red  leather 
pocketbook,  one-half  of  which  was  leaved  for 
memoranda,  he  discovered  that  he  was  without  a 
pencil.  He  broke  a  twig  from  a  bush,  dipped  it 
in  a  pool  of  blood  and  wrote  rapidly.  He  had 
hardly  touched  the  paper  with  the  point  of  his 
twig  when  a  low,  wild  laugh  seemed  to  break  out 
at  a  measureless  distance  away,  and  growing  ever 
louder,  seemed  approaching  ever  nearer;  a  soul 
less,  heartless,  and  unjoyous  laugh,  like  that  of 
the  loon,  solitary  by  the  lakeside  at  midnight ;  a 
laugh  which  culminated  in  an  unearthly  shout 
close  at  hand,  then  died  away  by  slow  gradations, 
as  if  the  accursed  being  that  uttered  it  had  with 
drawn  over  the  verge  of  the  world  whence  it  had 
come.  But  the  man  felt  that  this  was  not  so — 
that  it  was  near  by  and  had  not  moved.  A 
strange  sensation  slowly  began  to  take  possession 
of  his  body  and  his  mind.  He  could  not  have 
said  which,  if  any,  of  his  senses  was  affected ;  he 
felt  it  rather  as  a  consciousness — a  mysterious 
mental  assurance  of  some  overpowering  presence 
— some  supernatural  malevolence  different  in 
kind  from  the  invisible  existences  that  swarmed 
about  him,  and  superior  to  them  in  power.  He 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  HALPIN  FRA  YSER.  7 

knew  that  it  had  uttered  that  hideous  laugh. 
And  now  it  seemed  to  be  approaching  him ;  from 
what  direction  he  did  not  know — dared  not  con 
jecture.  All  his  former  fears  were  forgotten  or 
merged  in  the  gigantic  terror  that  now  held  him 
in  thrall.  Apart  from  that,  he  had  but  one 
thought :  to  complete  his  written  appeal  to  the 
benign  powers  who,  traversing  the  haunted  wood, 
might  some  time  rescue  him  if  he  should  be 
denied  the  blessing  of  annihilation.  He  wrote 
with  terrible  rapidity,  the  twig  in  his  fingers  rill 
ing  blood  without  renewal ;  but  in  the  middle  of 
a  sentence  his  hands  denied  their  service  to  his 
will,  his  arms  fell  to  his  sides,  the  book  to  the 
earth;  and  powerless  to  move  or  cry  out,  he 
found  himself  staring  into  the  sharply  drawn  face 
and  blank,  dead  eyes  of  his  own  mother,  standing 
white  and  silent  in  the  garments  of  the  grave ! 


II. 

IN  his  youth  Halpin  Frayser  had  lived  with  his 
parents  in  Nashville,  Tenn.  The  Fraysers  were 
well-to-do  people,  having  a  good  position  in  such 
society  as  had  survived  the  wreck  wrought  by 
civil  war.  Their  children  had  the  social  and 
educational  opportunities  of  their  time  and  place, 
and  had  responded  to  good  associations  and 
instruction  with  agreeable  manners  and  cultivated 
minds.  Halpin,  being  the  youngest,  and  not 
over  robust,  was,  perhaps,  a  trifle  "spoiled."  He 
had  the  double  disadvantage  of  a  mother's  assid 
uity  and  a  father's  neglect.  Frayser  ptre  was 
what  no  Southern  man  of  means  is  not — a  politi 
cian.  His  country,  or  rather  his  section  and 
State,  made  demands  upon  his  time  and  attention 
so  exacting  that  to  those  of  his  family  he  was 
compelled  to  turn  an  ear  partly  deafened  by  the 
thunder  of  the  political  captains  and  the  shout 
ing,  his  own  included. 

Young  Halpin  was  of  a  dreamy,  indolent,  and 
rather  romantic  turn,  somewhat  more  addicted  to 
literature  than  law,  the  profession  to  which  he 
was  bred.  Among  those  of  his  relations  who  pro 
fessed  the  modern  faith  of  heredity  it  was  well 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  HALPIN  FRA  YSER,  9 

understood  that  in  him  the  character  of  the  late 
Myron  Bayne,  a  maternal  great-grandfather,  had 
revisited  the  glimpses  of  the  moon — by  which  orb 
Bayne  had  in  his  lifetime  been  sufficiently  affected 
to  be  a  poet  of  no  small  Colonial  distinction.  If 
not  specially  observed,  it  was  observable  that  while 
a  Frayser  who  was  not  the  proud  possessor  of  a 
sumptuous  copy  of  the  ancestral  "poetical  works" 
(printed  at  the  family  expense,  and  long  ago 
withdrawn  from  an  inhospitable  market)  was  a 
rare  Frayser  indeed,  there  was  an  illogical  indis 
position  to  honor  the  great  deceased  in  the  person 
of  his  spiritual  successor.  Halpin  was  pretty 
generally  deprecated  as  an  intellectual  black 
sheep  who  was  likely  at  any  moment  to  disgrace 
the  flock  by  bleating  in  meter.  The  Tennessee 
Fraysers  were  a  practical  folk — not  practical  in 
the  popular  sense  of  devotion  to  sordid  pursuits, 
but  having  a  robust  contempt  for  any  qualities 
unfitting  a  man  for  the  wholesome  vocation  of 
politics.  In  justice  to  young  Halpin  it  should  be 
said  that  while  in  him  were  pretty  faithfully 
reproduced  most  of  the  mental  and  moral  charac 
teristics  ascribed  by  history  and  family  tradition 
to  the  famous  Colonial  bard,  his  succession  to  the 
gift  and  faculty  divine  was  purely  inferential. 
Not  only  had  he  never  been  known  to  court  the 
muse,  but  in  point  of  fact  he  could  not  have 
written  correctly  a  line  of  verse  to  save  himself 
from  the  Killer  of  the  Wise.  Still,  there  was  no 


10  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE* 

knowing  when  the  dormant  faculty  might  awake 
and  smite  the  lyre.  In  the  meantime  the  young 
man  was  rather  a  loose  fish,  anyhow. 

Between  him  and  his  mother  was  the  most 
perfect  sympathy,  for  secretly  the  lady  was  her 
self  a  devout  disciple  of  the  late  and  great  Myron 
Bayne,  though  with  the  tact  so  generally  and 
justly  admired  in  her  sex  (despite  the  hardy 
calumniators  who  insist  that  it  is  essentially  the 
same  thing  as  cunning),  she  had  always  taken  care 
to  conceal  her  weakness  from  all  eyes  but  his  who 
shared  it.  Their  common  guilt  in  respect  of  that 
was  an  added  tie  between  them.  If  in  Halpin's 
youth  his  mother  had  "spoiled"  him,  he  had 
assuredly  done  his  part  toward  being  spoiled. 
As  he  grew  to  such  manhood  as  is  attainable  by  a 
Southerner  who  does  not  care  which  way  elections 
go,  the  attachment  between  him  and  his  beautiful 
mother — whom  from  early  childhood  he  had 
called  Katy — became  yearly  stronger  and  more 
tender.  In  these  two  romantic  natures  was  man 
ifest  in  a  signal  way  that  neglected  phenomenon, 
the  dominance  of  the  sexual  element  in  all  the 
relations  of  life,  strengthening,  softening,  and 
beautifying  even  those  of  consanguinity.  The 
two  were  nearly  inseparable,  and  by  strangers 
observing  their  manner,  were  not  infrequently 
mistaken  for  lovers. 

Entering  his  mother's  boudoir  one  day  Halpin 
Frayser  kissed  her  upon  the  forehead,  toyed  for 


THE  DEA  TH  OF  ffALPItf  PR  A  YSER.          1 X 

a  moment  with  a  lock  of  her  dark  hair  which  had 
escaped  from  its  confining  pins,  and  said,  with  an 
obvious  effort  at  calmnes^ : 

"Would  you  greatly  mind,  Katy,  if  I  were 
called  away  to  California  for  a  few  weeks?" 

It  was  hardly  needful  for  Katy  to  answer  with 
her  lips  a  question  to  which  her  telltale  cheeks 
had  made  instant  reply.  Evidently  she  would 
greatly  mind ;  and  the  tears,  too,  sprang  into  her 
large  brown  eyes  as  corroborative  testimony. 

"Ah,  my  son,"  she  said,  looking  up  into  his 
face  with  infinite  tenderness,  "I  should  have 
known  that  this  was  coming.  Did  I  not  lie 
awake  a  half  of  the  night  weeping  because,  during 
the  other  half,  Grandfather  Bayne  had  come  to 
me  in  a  dream,  and  standing  by  his  portrait — 
young,  too,  and  handsome  as  that — pointed  to 
yours  on- the  same  wall?  And  when  I  looked  it 
seemed  that  I  could  not  see  the  features;  you 
had  been  painted  with  a  facecloth,  such  as  we  put 
upon  the  dead.  Your  father  has  laughed  at  me, 
but  you  and  I,  dear,  know  that  such  things  are  not 
for  nothing.  And  I  saw  below  the  edge  of  the 
cloth  the  marks  of  hands  on  your  throat — forgive 
me,  but  we  have  not  been  used  to  keep  such 
things  from  each  other.  Perhaps  you  have  an 
other  interpretation — perhaps  it  does  not  mean 
that  you  will  go  to  California.  Or  maybe  you 
will  take  me  with  you?" 

It  must  be  confessed  that  this  ingenious  inter- 


12  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

pretation  of  the  dream  in  the  light  of  newly  dis 
covered  evidence  did  not  wholly  commend  itself 
to  the  son's  more  logical  mind ;  he  had,  for  the 
moment  at  least,  a  conviction  that  it  foreshad 
owed  a  more  simple  and  immediate,  if  less  tragic, 
disaster  than  a  visit  to  the  Pacific  Coast.  It  was 
Halpin  Frayser's  impression  that  he  was  to  be 
garroted  on  his  native  heath. 

"Are  there  not  medicinal  springs  in  California?" 
Mrs.  Frayser  resumed  before  he  had  time  to 
give  her  the  true  reading  of  the  dream — "places 
where  one  recovers  from  rheumatism  and  neural 
gia?  Look — my  ringers  feel  so  stiff,  and  I  am 
almost  sure  they  have  been  giving  me  great  pain- 
while  I  slept." 

She  held  out  her  hands  for  his  inspection. 
What  diagnosis  of  her  case  he  may  have  thought 
it  best  to  conceal  with  a  smile  the  historian  is 
unable  to  state,  but  for  himself  he  feels  bound  to 
say  that  fingers  looking  less  stiff,  and  showing 
fewer  evidences  of  even  insensible  pain,  have 
seldom  been  submitted  for  medical  inspection  by 
even  the  fairest  patient  desiring  a  prescription  of 
unfamiliar  scenes. 

The  outcome  of  it  was  that  of  these  two  odd 
persons  having  equally  odd  notions  of  duty,  the 
one  went  to  California,  as  the  interest  of  his 
client  required,  and  the  other  remained  at  home 
in  compliance  with  a  wish  that  her  husband  was 
scarcely  conscious  of  entertaining. 


THE  DEATH  OF  HALF  IN  FRAYSER.          13 

While  in  San  Francisco  Halpin  Frayser  was 
walking  one  dark  night  along  the  water  front  of 
the  city,  when,  with  a  suddenness  that  surprised 
and  disconcerted  him,  he  became  a  sailor.  He 
was  in  fact  "shanghaied"  aboard  a  gallant,  gallant 
ship  and  sailed  for  a  far  countree.  Nor  did  his 
misfortunes  end  with  the  voyage;  for  the  ship 
was  cast  ashore  on  an  island  of  the  South  Pacific, 
and  it  was  six  years  afterward  when  the  survivors 
were  taken  off  by  a  ventursome  trading  schooner 
and  brought  back  to  San  Francisco. 

Though  poor  in  purse,  Frayser  was  no  less 
proud  in  spirit  than  he  had  been  in  the  years  that 
seemed  ages  and  ages  ago.  He  would  accept  no 
assistance  from  strangers,  and  it  was  while  living 
with  a  fellow  survivor  near  the  town  of  St.  Helena, 
awaiting  news  and  remittances  from  home,  that 
he  went  gunning  and  dreaming. 


III. 

THE  apparition  confronting  the  dreamer  in  the 
haunted  wood — the  thing  so  like,  yet  so  unlike  his 
mother — was  horrible!  It  stirred  no  love  nor 
longing  in  his  heart;  it  came  unattended  with 
pleasant  memories  of  a  golden  past — inspired  no 
sentiment  of  any  kind ;  all  the  finer  emotions  were 
swallowed  up  in  fear.  He  tried  to  turn  and  run 
from  before  it,  but  his  legs  were  as  lead ;  he  was 
unable  to  lift  his  feet  from  the  ground.  His  arms 
hung  helpless  at  his  sides;  of  his  eyes  only  he 
retained  control,  and  these  he  dared  not  remove 
from  the  lusterless  orbs  of  the  apparition,  which 
he  knew  was  not  a  soul  without  a  body,  but  that 
most  dreadful  of  all  the  existences  infesting  that 
haunted  wood — a  body  without  a  soul!  In  its 
blank  stare  was  neither  love,  nor  pity,  nor  intelli 
gence — nothing  to  which  to  address  an  appeal  for 
mercy.  "An  appeal  will  not  lie,"  he  thought, 
with  an  absurd  attrusion  of  professional  memories 
making  the  situation  more  horrible,  as  the  fire  of 
a  cigar  might  light  up  a  tomb. 

For  a  time,  which  seemed  so  long  that  the  world 
grew  gray  with  age  and  sin,  and  the  haunted  for 
est,  having  fulfilled  its  purpose  in  this  monstrous 


THE  DEATH  OF  HALF  IN  FRAYSER.  IS 

culmination  of  its  terrors,  vanished  out  of  his 
consciousness  with  all  its  sights  and  sounds,  the 
apparition  stood  within  a  pace,  regarding  him 
with  the  mindless  malevolence  of  a  wild  brute; 
then  thrust  its  hands  forward  and  sprang  upon 
him  with  appalling  ferocity!  The  act  released 
his  physical  energies  without  unfettering  his  will; 
his  mind  was  still  spellbound,  but  his  powerful 
body  and  agile  limbs,  endowed  with  a  blind, 
insensate  life  of  their  own,  resisted  stoutly  and 
well.  For  an  instant  he  seemed  to  see  this  un 
natural  contest  between  a  dead  intelligence  and  a 
breathing  mechanism  only  as  a  spectator — such 
fancies  are  in  dreams ;  then  he  regained  his  iden 
tity  almost  as  if  by  a  leap  forward  into  his  body, 
and  the  straining  automaton  had  a  directing  will 
as  alert  and  fierce  as  that  of  its  hideous  antago 
nist.  But  what  mortal  can  cope  with  a  creature 
of  his  dream?  The  imagination  creating  the 
enemy  is  already  vanquished  ;  the  combat's  result 
is  the  combat's  cause.  Despite  his  struggles — 
despite  his  strength  and  activity,  which  seemed 
wasted  in  a  void,  he  felt  the  cold  fingers  close 
upon  his  throat.  Borne  backward  to  the  earth, 
he  saw  above  him  the  dead  and  drawn  face  within 
a  hand's  breadth  of  his  own,  and  then  all  was 
black.  A  sound  as  of  the  beating  of  distant 
drums — a  murmur  of  swarming  voices,  a  sharp  far 
cry  signing  all  to  silence,  and  Halpin  Frayser 
dreamed  that  he  was  dead. 


IV. 

A  WARM,  clear  night  had  been  followed  by  a 
morning  of  drenching  fog.  At  about  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon  of  the  preceding  day  a  little 
whiff  of  light  vapor — a  mere  thickening  of  the 
atmosphere,  the  ghost  of  a  cloud— had  been 
observed  clinging  to  the  western  side  of  Mount 
St.  Helena,  away  up  along  the  barren  altitudes 
near  the  summit.  It  was  so  thin,  so  diaphanous, 
so  like  a  fancy  made  visible,  that  one  would  have 
said:  "Look  quickly!  in  a  moment  it  will  be 
gone." 

In  a  moment  it  was  visibly  larger  and  denser. 
While  with  one  edge  it  clung  to  the  mountain, 
with  the  other  it  reached  farther  and  farther  out 
into  the  air  above  the  lower  slopes.  At  the  same 
time  it  extended  itself  to  north  and  south,  joining 
small  patches  of  mist  that  appeared  to  come  out 
of  the  mountainside  on  exactly  the  same  level, 
with  an  intelligent  design  to  be  absorbed.  And 
so  it  grew  and  grew  until  the  summit  was  shut 
out  of  view  from  the  valley,  and  over  the  valley 
itself  was  an  ever-extending  canopy,  opaque  and 
gray.  At  Calistoga,  which  lies  near  the  head  of 
the  valley  and  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  there 

16 


THE  DEATH  OF  HALF  IN  FRAYS  I? 

were  a  starless  night  and  a  sunless  morning. 
And  the  fog,  sinking  into  the  valley,  had  reached 
southward,  swallowing  up  ranch  after  ranch,  until 
it  had  blotted  out  the  town  of  St.  Helena,  nine 
miles  away.  The  dust  in  the  road  was  laid ;  trees 
were  adrip  with  moisture ;  birds  sat  silent  in  their 
coverts ;  the  morning  light  was  wan  and  ghastly, 
with  neither  color  nor  fire. 

Two  men  left  the  town  of  St.  Helena  at  the 
first  glimmer  of  dawn,  and  walked  along  the  road 
northward  up  the  valley  toward  Calistoga.  They 
carried  guns  on  their  shoulders,  yet  no  one  having 
knowledge  of  such  matters  could  have  mistaken 
them  for  hunters  of  bird  or  beast.  They  were  a 
deputy  sheriff  from  Napa  and  a  detective  from 
San  Francisco — Holker  and  Jaralson,  respectively. 
Their  business  was  man  hunting. 

"How  far  is  it?"  inquired  Holker,  as  they 
strode  along,  their  feet  stirring  white  the  dust 
beneath  the  damp  surface  of  the  road. 

"  The  White  Church  ?  Only  a  half  mile  farther," 
the  other  answered.  "By  the  way,"  he  added,  "it 
is  neither  white  nor  a  church ;  it  is  an  abandoned 
schoolhouse,  gray  with  age  and  neglect.  Relig 
ious  services  were  once  held  in  it — when  it  was 
white,  and  there  is  a  graveyard  that  would  delight 
a  poet.  Can  you  guess  why  I  sent  for  you,  and 
told  you  to  come  heeled?" 

"Oh,  I  never  have  bothered  you  about  things 
of  that  kind.  I've  always  found  you  communica- 


1 8  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

tive  when  the  time  came.  But  if  I  may  hazard  a 
guess,  you  want  me  to  help  you  arrest  one  of  the 
corpses  in  the  graveyard." 

"You  remember  Branscom?"  said  Jaralson, 
treating  his  companion's  wit  with  the  inattention 
that  it  deserved. 

"The  chap  who  cut  his  wife's  throat?  I  ought ; 
I  wasted  a  week's  work  on  him  and  had  my 
expenses  for  my  trouble.  There  is  a  reward  of 
five  hundred  dollars,  but  none  of  us  ever  got  a 
sight  of  him.  You  don't  mean  to  say " 

"Yes,  I  do.  He  has  been  under  the  noses  of 
you  fellows  all  the  time.  He  comes  by  night  to 
the  old  graveyard  at  the  White  Church." 

"The  devil !    That's  where  they  buried  his  wife." 

"Well,  you  fellows  might  have  had  sense 
enough  to  suspect  that  he  would  return  to  her 
grave  some  time." 

"The  very  last  place  that  anyone  would  have 
expected  him  to  return  to." 

"But  you  had  exhausted  all  the  other  places. 
Learning  your  failure  at  them,  I  laid  for  him 
there." 

"And  you  found  him?" 

"D n  it !  he  found  me.  The  rascal  got  the 

the  drop  on  me — regularly  held  me  up  and  made 
me  travel.  It's  God's  mercy  that  he  didn't  go 
through  me.  Oh,  he's  a  good  one,  and  I  fancy 
the  half  of  that  reward  is  enough  for  me  if  you're 
needy." 


THE  DEATH  OF  HALF  IN  FRAYSER.  19 

Holker  laughed  good  humoredly,  and  explained 
that  his  creditors  were  never  more  importunate. 

"I  wanted  merely  to  show  yoa  the  ground,  and 
arrange  a  plan  with  you,"  the  detective  explained. 
"  I  thought  it  as  well  for  us  to  be  heeled,  even  in 
daylight." 

"The  man  must  be  insane,"  said  the  deputy 
sheriff.  "The  reward  is  for  his  capture  and  con 
viction.  If  he's  mad  he  won't  be  convicted." 

Mr.  Holker  was  so  profoundly  affected  by  that 
possible  failure  of  justice  that  he  involuntarily 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  then  resumed 
his  walk  with  abated  zeal. 

"Well,  he  looks  it,"  assented  Jaralson.  "I'm 
bound  to  admit  that  a  more  unshaven,  unshorn, 
unkempt,  and  uneverything  wretch  I  never  saw 
outside  the  ancient  and  honorable  order  of 
tramps.  But  I've  gone  in  for  him,  and  can't 
make  up  my  mind  to  let  go.  There's  glory  in  it 
for  us,  anyhow.  Not  another  soul  knows  that  he 
is  this  side  of  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon." 

"All  right,"  Holker  said;  "we  will  go  and  view 
the  ground,"  and  he  added,  in  the  words  of  a  once- 
favorite  inscription  for  tombstones :  "  'where  you 
must  shortly  lie' — I  mean,  if  old  Branscom  ever 
gets  tired  of  you  and  your  impertinent  intrusion. 
By  the  way,  I  heard  the  other  day  that  'Brans- 
corn'  was  not  his  real  name." 

"What  is?" 

"I  can't  recall  it.     I  had  lost  all  interest  in  the 


20  CAN  SUCH    THINGS  BE? 

wretch,  and  it  did  not  fix  itself  in  my  memory. 
Yes,  I  remember — it  is  Pardee.  The  woman 
whose  throat  he  had  the  bad  taste  to  cut  was  a 
widow  when  he  met  her.  She  had  come  to  Cali 
fornia  to  look  up  some  relatives — there  are  per 
sons  who  will  do  that  sometimes.  But  you  know 
all  that." 

"Naturally." 

"But  not  knowing  the  right  name,  by  what 
happy  inspiration  did  you  find  the  right  grave? 
The  man  who  told  me  that  the  name  was  Pardee 
said  it  had  been  cut  on  the  headboard." 

"I  don't  know  the  right  grave."  Jaralson  was 
apparently  a  trifle  reluctant  to  admit  his  igno 
rance  of  so  important  a  point  of  his  plan.  "I 
have  been  watching  about  the  place  generally. 
A  part  of  our  work  this  morning  will  be  to 
identify  that  grave.  Here  is  the  White  Church." 

For  a  long  distance  the  road  had  been  bor 
dered  by  fields  on  both  sides,  but  now  on  the  left 
there  was  a  forest  of  oaks,  madrofios,  and  gigantic 
spruces  whose  lower  parts  only  could  be  seen, 
dim  and  ghostly  in  the  fog.  The  undergrowth 
was,  in  places,  thick,  but  nowhere  impenetrable. 
For  some  moments  Holker  saw  nothing  of  the 
building,  but  as  they  turned  into  the  woods  it 
revealed  itself  in  faint  gray  outline  through  the 
fog,  looking  huge  and  far  away.  A  few  steps 
more,  and  it  was  within  an  arm's  length,  distinct, 
dark  with  moisture,  and  insignificant  in  size.  It 


THE  DEATH  OF  H ALP  IN  FRAYSER.          21 

had  the  usual  country  schoolhouse  form — be 
longed  to  the  packing-box  order  of  architecture; 
had  an  underpinning  of  stones,  a  moss-grown  roof, 
and  blank  window  spaces,  whence  both  glass  and 
sash  had  been  long  removed  by  Time  and  his 
ally,  the  small  boy.  It  was  ruined,  but  not  a 
ruin — a  typical  Californian  substitute  for  what 
are  known  to  guide-bookers  abroad  as  "monu 
ments  of  the  past."  With  scarcely  a  glance  at 
this  uninteresting  structure,  Jaralson  moved  on 
into  the  dripping  undergrowth  beyond. 

"I  will  show  you  where  he  held  me  up,"  he 
said.  "This  is  the  graveyard." 

Here  and  there  among  the  bushes  were  small 
inclosures  containing  graves,  sometimes  no  more 
than  one.  They  were  recognized  as  graves  by 
the  rotting  boards  at  head  and  foot,  leaning  at 
all  angles,  some  prostrate ;  by  the  ruined  picket 
fences  surrounding  them  ;  or,  infrequently,  by  the 
mound  itself  showing  its  gravel  through  the 
fallen  leaves.  In  many  instances  nothing  marked 
the  spot  where  lay  the  vestiges  of  some  poor 
mortal  who,  leaving  "a  large  circle  of  sorrowing 
friends,"  had  been  left  by  them  in  turn,  except  a 
depression  in  the  earth,  more  lasting  than  that  in 
the  spirits  of  the  mourners.  The  paths,  if  any 
paths  had  been,  were  long  obliterated ;  trees  of 
a  considerable  size  had  been  permitted  to  grow 
up  from  the  graves  and  thrust  aside  with  root  or 
branch  the  inclosing  fences.  Over  all  was  that 


23  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

air  of  abandonment  and  decay  which  seems  no 
where  so  fit  and  right  as  in  a  village  of  the  dead. 

As  the  two  men,  Jaralson  leading,  pushed  their 
way  through  a  growth  of  young  trees,  that  enter 
prising  man  suddenly  stopped  and  brought  up  his 
shotgun  to  the  height  of  his  breast,  uttered  a  low 
note  of  warning,  and  stood  motionless,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  something  ahead.  As  well  as  he  could, 
obstructed  by  brush,  his  companion,  though  see 
ing  nothing,  imitated  the  posture  and  so  stood, 
prepared  for  what  might  ensue.  A  moment  later 
Jaralson  strode  forward,  the  other  following. 

Under  the  branches  of  an  enormous  spruce  lay 
the  dead  body  of  a  man.  Standing  silent  above 
it  they  noted  such  particulars  as  first  strike  the 
attention — the  face,  the  attitude,  the  clothing; 
whatever  most  promptly  and  plainly  answers  the 
unspoken  questions  of  a  sympathetic  curiosity. 

The  body  lay  upon  its  back,  the  legs  wide 
apart.  One  arm  was  thrust  upward,  the  other 
outward;  but  the  latter  was  bent  acutely,  and  the 
hand  was  near  the  throat.  Both  hands  were 
tightly  clenched.  The  whole  attitude  was  that 
of  desperate  but  ineffectual  resistance  to — what? 

Near  by  lay  a  shotgun  and  a  game  bag  through 
the  meshes  of  which  was  seen  the  plumage  of 
shot  birds.  All  about  were  evidences  of  a  furious 
struggle ;  small  sprouts  of  poison  oak  were  bent 
and  denuded  of  leaf  and  bark,  dead  and  rotting 
leaves  had  been  pushed  into  heaps  and  ridges  on 


THE  DEA  Ttt  Of  HALP1N  FRA  YSER.          2$ 

both  sides  of  the  legs  by  the  action  of  other  feet 
than  theirs,  and  alongside  the  waist  were  unmis 
takable  impressions  of  human  knees.  The  nature 
of  the  struggle  was  made  clear  by  a  glance  at  the 
dead  man's  throat  and  face.  While  breast  and 
hands  were  white,  those  were  purple — almost 
black.  The  shoulders  lay  upon  a  low  mound, 
and  the  head  was  turned  back  at  an  angle  other 
wise  impossible,  the  expanded  eyes  staring  blankly 
backward  in  a  direction  opposite  to  that  of  the 
feet.  From  the  froth  filling  the  open  mouth  the 
tongue  protruded,  black  and  swollen.  The  throat 
showed  horrible  contusions;  not  mere  finger 
marks,  but  bruises  and  lacerations  wrought  by 
two  strong  hands  that  must  have  buried  them 
selves  in  the  yielding  flesh,  maintaining  their  ter 
rible  grasp  until  long  after  death.  Breast,  throat, 
face,  were  wet ;  the  clothing  was  saturated  ;  drops 
of  water,  condensed  from  the  fog,  studded  the 
hair  and  mustache. 

All  this  the  two  men  observed  without  speak 
ing  ;  almost  at  a  glance.  Then  Holker  said : 

"Poor  devil !  he  had  a  rough  deal." 

Jaralson  was  making  a  vigilant  circumspection 
of  the  forest,  his  shotgun  held  in  both  hands  and 
at  full  cock,  his  finger  upon  the  trigger. 

"The  work  of  a  maniac,"  he  said,  without  with 
drawing  his  eyes  from  the  inclosing  wood.  "It 
was  done  by  Branscom — Pardee." 

Something  half  hidden  by  the  disturbed  leaves 


24  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

on  the  earth  caught  Holker's  attention.  It  was  a 
red  leather  pocketbook.  He  picked  it  up  and 
opened  it.  It  contained  leaves  of  white  paper 
for  memoranda,  and  upon  the  first  leaf  was  the 
name  "Halpin  Frayser."  Written  in  red  on 
several  succeeding  leaves — scrawled  as  if  in  haste 
and  barely  legible — were  the  following  lines, 
which  Holker  read  aloud,  while  his  companion 
continued  scanning  the  dim  gray  confines  of  their 
narrow  world  and  hearing  matter  of  suspicion  in 
the  drip  of  water  from  every  burdened  branch : 

"  Enthralled  by  some  mysterious  spell,  I  stood, 
In  the  lit  gloom  of  an  enchanted  wood. 

The  cypress  there  and  myrtle  twined  their  boughs, 
Significant,  in  baleful  brotherhood. 

"  The  brooding  willow  whispered  to  the  yew  ; 
Beneath,  the  deadly  nightshade  and  the  rue, 
With  immortelles  self-woven  into  strange 
Funereal  shapes,  and  horrid  nettles  grew. 

"  No  song  of  bird  nor  any  drone  of  bees, 

Nor  light  leaf  lifted  by  the  wholesome  breeze  : 

The  air  was  stagnant  all,  and  Silence  was 
A  living  thing  that  breathed  among  the  trees. 

"  Conspiring  spirits  whispered  in  the  gloom, 
Half-heard,  the  stilly  secrets  of  the  tomb. 

With  blood  the  trees  were  all  adrip,  the  leaves 
Shone  in  the  witch-light  with  a  ruddy  bloom. 

*'  I  cried  aloud  ! — the  spell,  unbroken  still, 
Rested  upon  my  spirit  and  my  will. 

Unsouled,  unhearted,  hopeless,  and  forlorn, 
I  strove  with  monstrous  presages  of  ill ! 

"  At  last  the  viewless " 


THE  DEATH  OF  H ALP  IN  FRAYSER.          25 

Holker  ceased  reading;  there  was  no  more  to 
read.  The  manuscript  broke  off  in  the  middle  of 
a  line. 

"That  sounds  like  Bayne,"  said  Jaralson,  who 
was  something  of  a  scholar  in  his  way.  He  had 
abated  his  vigilance  and  stood  looking  down  at 
the  body. 

"Who's  Bayne?"  Holker  asked  rather  incuri 
ously. 

"Myron  Bayne,  a  chap  who  flourished  in  the 
early  years  of  the  nation — more  than  a  century 
ago ;  wrote  mighty  dismal  stuff.  I  have  his  col 
lected  works.  That  poem  is  not  among  them, 
but  it  must  have  been  omitted  by  mistake." 

"It  is  cold,"  said  Holker;  "let  us  leave  here; 
we  must  have  up  the  coroner  from  Napa." 

Jaralson  said  nothing,  but  made  a  movement  in 
compliance.  Passing  the  end  of  the  slight  eleva 
tion  of  earth  upon  which  the  dead  man's  head 
and  shoulders  lay,  his  foot  struck  some  hard  sub 
stance  under  the  rotting  forest  leaves,  and  he 
took  the  trouble  to  kick  it  into  view.  It  was  a 
fallen  headboard,  and  painted  on  it  were  the 
words,  "Catherine  Larue." 

"Larue,  Larue!"  exclaimed  Holker,  with  sud 
den  animation.  "Why,  that  is  the  real  name  of 
Branscom — not  Pardee.  And — bless  my  soul! 
how  it  all  comes  to  me — the  murdered  woman's 
name  had  been  Frayser!" 

"There    is  some    rascally    mystery  here,"  said 


*6  CAN  SUCH  THltfGS  BE? 

Detective    Jaralson.     "I  hate  anything    of  that 
kind." 

There  came  to  them  out  of  the  fog — seemingly 
from  a  great  distance — the  sound  of  a  laugh,  a 
low,  deliberate,  soulless  laugh,  which  had  no  more 
of  joy  than  that  of  a  hyena  night-prowling  in  the 
desert;  a  laugh  that  rose  by  slow  gradation, 
louder  and  louder,  clearer,  more  distinct  and  ter 
rible,  until  it  seemed  barely  outside  the  narrow 
circle  of  their  vision ;  a  laugh  so  unnatural,  so 
unhuman,  so  devilish,  that  it  filled  those  hardy 
man  hunters  with  a  sense  of  dread  unspeakable ! 
They  did  not  move  their  weapons  nor  think  of 
them ;  the  menace  of  that  horrible  sound  was  not 
of  the  kind  to  be  met  with  arms.  As  it  had 
grown  out  of  silence  so  now  it  died  away ;  with  a 
culminating  shout  which  seemed  almost  in  their 
ears,  it  drew  itself  away  into  the  distance,  until 
its  failing  notes,  joyless  and  mechanical  to  the 
last,  sank  to  silence  at  a  measureless  remove. 


THE  MOCKING   BIRD. 

THE  time,  a  pleasant  Sunday  afternoon  in  the 
early  autumn  of  1861.  The  place,  a  forest's  heart 
in  the  mountain  region  of  Western  Virginia. 
Private  Grayrock  of  the  Federal  Army  is  discov 
ered  seated  comfortably  at  the  root  of  a  great 
pine  tree,  against  which  he  leans,  his  legs  ex 
tended  straight  along  the  ground,  his  rifle  lying 
across  his  thighs,  his  hands  (clasped  in  order  that 
they  may  not  fall  away  to  his  sides)  resting  upon 
the  barrel  of  the  weapon.  The  contact  of  the 
back  of  his  head  with  the  tree  has  pushed  his  cap 
downward  over  his  eyes,  almost  concealing  them ; 
one  seeing  him  would  say  he  slept. 

Private  Grayrock  did  not  sleep ;  to  have  done 
so  would  have  imperiled  the  interests  of  the 
United  States,  for  he  was  a  long  way  outside  the 
lines,  and  subject  to  capture  or  death  at  the  hands 
of  the  enemy.  Moreover,  he  was  in  a  frame  of 
mind  unfavorable  to  repose.  The  cause  of  his 
perturbation  of  spirit  was  this:  During  the  pre 
vious  night  he  had  served  on  the  picket  guard, 
and  had  been  posted  as  a  sentinel  in  this  very 
forest.  The  night  was  clear,  though  moonless, 
but  in  the  gloom  of  the  wood  the  darkness  was 

27 


a8  CAM  SUClf  THINGS 

deep.  Grayrock's  post  was  at  a  considerable 
distance  from  those  to  right  and  left,  for  the 
pickets  had  been  thrown  out  a  needless  distance 
from  the  camp,  making  the  line  too  long  for  the 
force  detailed  to  occupy  it.  The  war  was  young, 
and  military  camps  entertained  the  error  that 
when  sleeping  they  were  better  protected  by  thin 
lines  a  long  way  out  toward  the  enemy  than  by 
thicker  ones  close  in.  And  surely  they  needed 
as  long  notice  as  possible  of  an  enemy's  approach, 
for  they  were  at  that  time  addicted  to  the  prac 
tice  of  undressing — than  which  nothing  could  be 
more  unsoldierly.  On  the  morning  of  the  mem 
orable  6th  of  April,  at  Shiloh  many  of  Grant's 
men  when  spitted  on  Confederate  bayonets  were 
as  naked  as  civilians;  but  it  should  be  allowed 
that  this  was  not  because  of  any  defect  in  their 
picket  line.  Their  error  was  of  another  sort: 
they  had  no  pickets.  This  is  perhaps  a  digres 
sion.  I  should  not  care  to  undertake  to  interest 
the  reader  in  the  fate  of  an  army;  what  we 
have  here  to  consider  is  that  of  Private  Gray- 
rock. 

For  two  hours  after  he  had  been  left  at  his 
lonely  post  that  Saturday  night  he  stood  stock 
still,  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  a  large  tree, 
staring  into  the  darkness  in  his  front  and  trying 
to  recognize  known  objects;  for  he  had  been 
posted  at  the  same  spot  during  the  day.  But  all 
was  now  different ;  he  saw  nothing  in  detail,  but 


THE  MOCKING  BIRD.  29 

only  groups  of  things,  whose  shapes,  not  observed 
when  there  was  something  more  of  them  to 
observe,  were  now  unfamiliar.  They  seemed  not 
before  to  have  been  there.  A  landscape  which  is 
all  trees  and  undergrowth,  moreover,  lacks  defini 
tion,  is  confused  and  without  accentuated  points 
upon  which  attention  can  gain  a  foothold.  Add 
the  gloom  of  a  moonless  night,  and  something 
more  than  great  natural  intelligence  and  a  city 
education  is  required  to  preserve  one's  sense  of 
direction.  And  that  is  how  it  occurred  that 
Private  Grayrock,  after  vigilantly  watching  the 
spaces  in  his  front  and  then  imprudently  execut 
ing  a  circumspection  of  his  whole  dimly  visible 
environment  (silently  walking  around  his  tree  to 
accomplish  it)  lost  his  bearings  and  seriously 
impaired  his  usefulness  as  a  sentinel.  Lost  at  his 
post — unable  to  say  in  which  direction  to  look  for 
an  enemy's  approach,  and  in  which  lay  the  sleep 
ing  camp  for  whose  security  he  was  responsible 
with  his  life — conscious,  too,  of  many  another 
awkward  feature  of  the  situation  and  of  consider 
ations  affecting  his  own  safety,  Private  Grayrock 
was  profoundly  disquieted.  Nor  was  he  given 
time  to  recover  his  tranquillity,  for  almost  at 
the  moment  that  he  realized  his  awkward  predic 
ament  he  heard  a  stir  of  leaves  and  a  snap  of 
fallen  twigs,  and  turning  with  a  stilled  heart  in 
the  direction  whence  it  came,  saw  in  the  gloom 
the  indistinct  outline  of  a  human  figure. 


30  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

"Halt!"  shouted  Private  Grayrock,  peremp 
torily  as  in  duty  bound,  backing  up  the  command 
with  the  sharp  metallic  snap  of  his  cocking  rifle — 
"who  goes  there?" 

There  was  no  answer ;  at  least  there  was  an 
instant's  hesitation,  and  the  answer,  if  it  came, 
was  lost  in  the  report  of  the  sentinel's  rifle.  In 
the  silence  of  the  night  and  the  forest  the  sound 
was  deafening,  and  hardly  had  it  died  away  when 
it  was  repeated  by  the  pieces  of  the  pickets  to 
right  and  left,  a  sympathetic  fusillade.  For  two 
hours  every  unconverted  civilian  of  them  had 
been  evolving  enemies  from  his  imagination,  and 
peopling  the  woods  in  his  front  with  them,  and 
Grayrockfs  shot  had  started  the  whole  encroach 
ing  host  into  visible  existence.  Having  fired,  all 
retreated,  breathless,  to  the  reserves — all  but 
Grayrock,  who  did  not  know  in  what  direction  to 
retreat.  When,  no  enemy  appearing,  the  roused 
camp  two  miles  away  had  undressed  and  got  itself 
into  bed  again,  and  the  picket  line  was  cautiously 
re-established,  he  was  discovered  bravely  holding 
his  ground,  and  was  highly  complimented  by  the 
officer  of  the  guard  as  the  one  soldier  of  that 
devoted  band  who  could  rightly  be  considered  the 
moral  equivalent  of  that  uncommon  unit  of  value, 
"a  whoop  in  hell." 

In  the  mean  time,  however,  Grayrock  had  made 
a  close  but  unavailing  search  for  the  mortal  part 
of  the  intruder  at  whom  he  had  fired,  and  whom 


THE  MOCKING  BIRD.  31 

he  had  a  marksman's  intuitive  sense  of  having 
hit;  for  he  was  one  of  those  born  experts  who 
shoot  without  aim  by  an  instinctive  sense  of 
direction,  and  are  nearly  as  dangerous  by  night  as 
by  day.  During  a  full  half  of  his  twenty-four 
years  he  had  been  a  terror  to  the  targets  of  all  the 
shooting  galleries  in  three  cities.  Unable  now  to 
produce  his  dead  game  he  had  the  discretion  to 
hold  his  tongue,  and  was  glad  to  observe  in  his 
officer  and  comrades  the  natural  assumption  that 
not  having  run  away  he  had  seen  nothing  hostile. 
His  "honorable  mention"  had  been  earned  by  not 
running  away,  anyhow. 

Nevertheless,  Private  Grayrock  was  far  from 
satisfied  with  the  night's  adventure,  and  when, 
the  next  day,  he  made  some  fair  enough  pretext 
to  apply  for  a  pass  to  go  outside  the  lines,  and 
the  general  commanding  promptly  granted  it  in 
recognition  of  his  bravery  the  night  before,  he 
passed  out  at  the  point  where  that  had  been  dis 
played.  Telling  the  sentinel  then  on  duty  there 
that  he  had  lost  something, — which  was  true 
enough, — he  renewed  the  search  for  the  person 
whom  he  supposed  himself  to  have  shot,  and 
whom  if  only  wounded  he  hoped  to  trail  by  the 
blood.  He  was  no  more  successful  by  daylight 
than  he  had  been  in  the  darkness,  and  after  cov 
ering  a  wide  area  and  boldly  penetrating  a  long 
distance  into  "the  Confederacy"  he  gave  up  the 
search,  somewhat  fatigued,  seated  himself  at  the 


3«  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

root  of  the  great  pine  tree,  where  we  have  seen 
him,  and  indulged  his  disappointment. 

It  is  not  to  be  inferred  that  Grayrock's  was  the 
chagrin  of  a  cruel  nature  balked  of  its  bloody 
deed.  In  the  clear  large  eyes,  finely  wrought  lips, 
and  broad  forehead  of  that  young  man  one  could 
read  quite  another  story,  and  in  point  of  fact  his 
character  was  a  singularly  felicitous  compound  of 
boldness  and  sensibility,  courage  and  conscience. 

"I  find  myself  disappointed,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  sitting  there  at  the  bottom  of  the  golden 
haze  submerging  the  forest  like  a  subtler  sea — 
"disappointed  in  failing  to  discover  a  fellow-man 
dead  by  my  hand !  Do  I  then  really  wish  that  I 
had  taken  life  in  the  performance  of  a  duty  as  well 
performed  without?  What  more  could  I  wish? 
If  any  danger  threatened,  my  shot  averted  it; 
that  is  what  I  was  there  to  do.  No,  I  am  glad 
indeed  if  no  human  life  was  needlessly  extin 
guished  by  me.  But  I  am  in  a  false  position.  I 
have  suffered  myself  to  be  complimented  by  my 
officers  and  envied  by  my  comrades.  The  camp 
is  ringing  with  praise  of  my  courage.  That  is  not 
just ;  I  know  myself  courageous,  but  this  praise  is 
for  specific  acts  which  I  did  not  perform,  or  per 
formed — otherwise.  It  is  believed  that  I  re 
mained  at  my  post  bravely  without  firing,  whereas 
it  was  I  who  began  the  fusillade,  and  I  did  not 
retreat  in  the  general  alarm  because  bewildered. 
What,  then,  shall  I  do?  Explain  that  I  saw  an 


THE  MOCKING  BIRD.  33 

enemy  and  fired?  They  have  all  said  that,  yet 
none  believes  it?  Shall  I  tell  a  truth  which,  dis 
crediting  my  courage,  will  have  the  effect  of  a  lie? 
Ugh !  it  is  an  ugly  business  altogether.  I  wish 
to  God  I  could  find  my  man !" 

And  so  wishing,  Private  Grayrock,  overcome  at 
last  by  the  languor  of  the  afternoon  and  lulled  by 
the  stilly  sounds  of  insects  droning  and  prosing 
in  certain  fragrant  shrubs,  so  far  forgot  the  inter 
ests  of  the  United  States  as  to  fall  asleep  and 
expose  himself  to  capture.  And  sleeping  he 
dreamed. 

He  thought  himself  a  boy,  living  in  a  far,  fair 
land  by  the  border  of  a  great  river  upon  which  the 
tall  steamboats  sped  grandly  up  and  down  be 
neath  their  towering  evolutions  of  black  smoke, 
which  announced  them  long  before  they  had 
rounded  the  bends  and  marked  their  movements 
when  miles  out  of  sight.  With  him  always,  at 
his  side  as  he  watched  them,  was  one  to  whom  he 
gave  his  heart  and  soul  in  love — a  twin  brother. 
Together  they  strolled  along  the  banks  of  the 
stream ;  together  explored  the  fields  lying  farther 
away  from  it,  and  gathered  pungent  mints  and 
sticks  of  fragrant  sassafras  in  the  hills  overlooking 
all — beyond  which  lay  the  Realm  of  Conjecture, 
and  from  which,  looking  southward  across  the 
great  river,  they  caught  glimpses  of  the  Enchanted 
Land.  Hand  in  hand  and  heart  in  heart  they 
two,  the  only  children  of  a  widowed  mother, 


34  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

walked  in  paths  of  light  through  valleys  of  peace, 
seeing  new  things  under  a  new  sun.  And  through 
all  the  golden  days  floated  one  unceasing  sound 
— the  rich,  thrilling  melody  of  a  mocking  bird  in  a 
cage  by  the  cottage  door.  It  pervaded  and  pos 
sessed  all  the  spiritual  intervals  of  the  dream,  like 
a  musical  benediction.  The  joyous  bird  was 
always  in  song ;  its  infinitely  various  notes  seemed 
to  flow  from  its  throat,  effortless,  in  bubbles  and 
rills  at  each  heart  beat,  like  the  waters  of  a  puls 
ing  spring.  That  fresh,  clear  melody  seemed, 
indeed,  the  spirit  of  the  scene,  the  meaning  and 
interpretation  to  sense  of  the  mysteries  of  life 
and  love. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  the  days  of  the 
dream  grew  dark  with  sorrow  in  a  rain  of  tears. 
The  good  mother  was  dead,  the  meadowside 
home  by  the  great  river  was  broken  up,  and  the 
brothers  were  parted  between  two  of  their  kins 
men.  William  (the  dreamer)  went  to  live  in  a 
populous  city  in  the  Realm  of  Conjecture,  and 
John,  crossing  the  river  into  the  Enchanted  Land, 
was  taken  to  a  distant  region  whose  people  in 
their  lives  and  ways  were  said  to  be  strange  and 
wicked.  To  him,  in  the  distribution  of  the  dead 
mother's  estate,  had  fallen  all  that  they  deemed 
of  value — the  mocking-bird.  They  could  be 
divided,  but  it  could  not,  and  so  it  was  carried 
away  into  the  strange  country,  and  the  world 
of  William  knew  it  no  more  forever.  Yet  still 


THE  MOCKING  BIRD.  35 

through  all  the  aftertime  of  his  loneliness  its  song 
filled  all  the  dream,  and  seemed  always  sounding 
in  his  ear  and  in  his  heart. 

The  kinsmen  who  had  adopted  the  boys  were 
enemies,  holding  no  communication.  For  a  time 
letters  full  of  boyish  bravado  and  boastful  narra 
tives  of  the  new  and  larger  experience — grotesque 
descriptions  of  their  widening  lives  and  the  new 
worlds  they  had  conquered — passed  between 
them ;  but  these  gradually  became  less  frequent, 
and  with  William's  removal  to  another  and 
greater  city  ceased  altogether.  But  ever  through 
it  all  ran  the  song  of  the  mocking  bird,  and  when 
the  dreamer  opened  his  eyes  and  stared  through 
the  vistas  of  the  pine  forest  the  cessation  of  its 
music  first  apprised  him  that  he  was  awake.  The 
sun  was  low  and  red  in  the  west ;  the  level  rays 
projected  from  the  trunk  of  each  giant  pine  a  wall 
of  shadow  traversing  the  golden  haze  to  eastward 
until  light  and  shade  were  blended  in  undistin- 
guishable  blue. 

Private  Grayrock  rose  to  his  feet,  looked  cau 
tiously  about  him,  shouldered  his  rifle  and  set  off 
toward  camp.  He  had  gone  perhaps  a  half  mile, 
and  was  passing  a  thicket  of  laurel,  when  a  bird 
rose  from  the  midst  of  it  and  perching  on  the 
branch  of  a  tree  above,  poured  from  its  joyous 
breast  so  inexhaustible  floods  of  song  as  but  one 
of  all  God's  creatures  can  utter  in  his  praise. 
There  was  little  in  that — it  was  but  to  open  the 


36  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

beak  and  breathe;  yet  the  man  stopped  as  if 
struck — stopped  and  let  fall  his  rifle,  looking  up 
ward  at  the  bird,  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands 
and  wept  like  a  child!  For  the  moment  he  was, 
indeed,  a  child  in  spirit  and  in  memory,  dwelling 
again  by  the  great  river,  over  against  the  En 
chanted  Land !  Then  with  an  effort  of  the  will 
he  pulled  himself  together,  picked  up  his  weapon 
and  audibly  damning  himself  for  an  idiot  strode 
on.  Passing  an  opening  that  reached  into  the 
heart  of  the  little  thicket  he  looked  in,  and  there, 
supine  upon  the  earth,  its  arms  all  abroad,  its 
gray  uniform  stained  with  a  single  spot  of  blood 
upon  the  breast,  its  white  face  turned  sharply 
upward  and  backward,  lay  the  image  of  himself ! 
— the  body  of  John  Grayrock,  dead  of  a  gunshot 
wound,  and  still  warm !  He  had  found  his  man. 

As  the  unfortunate  soldier  knelt  beside  that 
masterwork  of  civil  war,  the  shrilling  bird  upon 
the  bough  overhead  stilled  her  song  and,  flushed 
with  sunset's  crimson  glory,  glided  silently  away 
through  the  solemn  spaces  of  the  wood.  At  roll- 
call  that  evening  in  the  Federal  camp  the  name 
Grayrock  brought  no  response,  nor  ever  again 
thereafter. 


MY  FAVORITE  MURDER. 

HAVING  murdered  my  mother  under  circum 
stances  of  singular  atrocity,  I  was  arrested  and 
put  upon  my  trial,  which  lasted  seven  years.  In 
summing  up,  the  judge  of  the  Court  of  Acquittal 
remarked  that  it  was  one  of  the  most  ghastly 
crimes  that  he  had  ever  been  called  upon  to 
explain  away. 

At  this  my  counsel  rose  and  said : 

"May  it  please  your  honor,  crimes  are  ghastly 
or  agreeable  only  by  comparison.  If  you  were 
familiar  with  the  details  of  my  client's  previous 
murder  of  his  uncle,  you  would  discern  in  his 
later  offense  something  in  the  nature  of  tender 
forbearance  and  filial  consideration  for  the  feel 
ings  of  the  victim.  The  appalling  ferocity  of  the 
former  assassination  was  indeed  inconsistent  with 
any  hypothesis  but  that  of  guilt ;  and  had  it  not 
been  for  the  fact  that  the  honorable  judge  before 
whom  he  was  tried  was  the  president  of  a  life 
insurance  company  which  took  risks  on  hanging, 
and  in  which  my  client  held  a  policy,  it  is 
impossible  to  see  how  he  could  have  been 
decently  acquitted.  If  your  honor  would  like  to 

37 


38  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

hear  about  it  for  the  instruction  and  guidance  of 
your  honor's  mind,  this  unfortunate  man,  my 
client,  will  consent  to  give  himself  the  pain  of 
relating  it  under  oath." 

The  district  attorney  said:  "Your  honor,  I 
object.  Such  a  statement  would  be  in  the  nature 
of  evidence,  and  the  testimony  in  this  case  is 
closed.  The  prisoner's  statement  should  have 
been  introduced  three  years  ago,  in  the  spring  of 
1881." 

"In  a  statutory  sense,"  said  the  judge,  "you 
are  right,  and  in  the  Court  of  Objections  and 
Technicalities  you  would  get  a  ruling  in  your 
favor.  But  not  in  a  Court  of  Acquittal.  The 
objection  is  overruled." 

"I  except,"  said  the  district  attorney. 

"You  cannot  do  that,"  the  judge  said.  "I  must 
remind  you  that  in  order  to  take  an  exception 
you  must  first  get  this  case  transferred  for  a  time 
to  the  Court  of  Exceptions  upon  a  formal  motion 
duly  supported  by  affidavits.  A  motion  to  that 
effect  by  your  predecessor  in  office  was  denied  by 
me  during  the  first  year  of  this  trial. 

"Mr.  Clerk,  swear  the  prisoner." 

The  customary  oath  having  been  administered, 
I  made  the  following  statement,  which  impressed 
the  judge  with  so  strong  a  sense  of  the  compara 
tive  triviality  of  the  offense  for  which  I  was  on 
trial  that  he  made  no  further  search  for  mitigating 
circumstances,  but  simply  instructed  the  jury  to 


MY  PA  VOR1T&  MURDRR.  39 

acquit,  and  I  left  the  court  without  a  stain  upon 
my  reputation : 

"I  was  born  in  1856  in  Kalamakee,  Mich.,  of 
honest  and  reputable  parents,  one  of  whom 
Heaven  has  mercifully  spared  to  comfort  me  in 
my  later  years.  In  1867  the  family  came  to 
California  and  settled  near  Nigger  Head,  where 
my  father  opened  a  road  agency  and  prospered 
beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice.  He  was  a  silent, 
saturnine  man  then,  though  his  increasing  years 
have  now  somewhat  relaxed  the  austerity  of  his 
disposition,  and  I  believe  that  nothing  but  his 
memory  of  the  sad  event  for  which  I  am  now  on 
trial  prevents  him  from  manifesting  a  genuine 
hilarity. 

"Four  years  after  we  had  set  up  the  road  agency 
an  itinerant  preacher  came  along,  and  having  no 
other  way  to  pay  for  the  night's  lodging  which 
we  gave  him,  favored  us  with  an  exhortation  of 
such  power  that,  praise  God,  we  were  all  con 
verted  to  religion.  My  father  at  once  sent  for  his 
brother,  the  Hon.  William  Ridley  of  Stockton, 
and  on  his  arrival  turned  over  the  agency  to  him, 
charging  him  nothing  for  the  franchise  or  plant — 
the  latter  consisting  of  a  Winchester  rifle,  a  sawn- 
off  shotgun,  and  an  assortment  of  masks  made 
out  of  flour  sacks.  The  family  then  moved  to 
Ghost  Rock  and  opened  a  dance  house.  It  was 
called  'The  Saints'  Rest  Hurdy-Gurdy,'  and  the 


40  CAM  SUCH  THINGS 

proceedings  each  night  began  with  prayer.  It 
was  there  that  my  now  sainted  mother,  by  her 
grace  in  the  dance,  acquired  the  sobriquet  of  'The 
Bucking  Walrus.' 

"In  the  fall  of  '75  I  had  occasion  to  visit  Coyote, 
on  the  road  to  Mahala,  and  took  the  stage  at 
Ghost  Rock.  There  were  four  other  passengers. 
About  three  miles  beyond  Nigger  Head,  persons 
whom  I  indentified  as  my  Uncle  William  and  his 
two  sons  held  up  the  stage.  Finding  nothing  in 
the  express  box,  they  went  through  the  passen 
gers.  I  acted  a  most  honorable  part  in  the  affair, 
placing  myself  in  line  with  the  others,  holding  up 
my  hands  and  permitting  myself  to  be  deprived 
of  forty  dollars  and  a  gold  watch.  From  my 
behavior  no  one  could  have  suspected  that  I  knew 
the  gentlemen  who  gave  the  entertainment.  A 
.few  days  later,  when  I  went  to  Nigger  Head  and 
asked  for  the  return  of  my  money  and  watch,  my 
uncle  and  cousins  swore  they  knew  nothing  of  the 
matter,  and  they  affected  a  belief  that  my  father 
and  I  had  done  the  job  ourselves  in  dishonest 
violation  of  commercial  good  faith.  Uncle  Wil 
liam  even  threatened  to  retaliate  by  starting  an 
opposition  dance  house  at  Ghost  Rock.  As 
'The  Saints'  Rest  had  become  rather  unpopular, 
I  saw  that  this  would  assuredly  ruin  it  and  prove 
a  paying  enterprise,  so  I  told  my  uncle  that  I  was 
willing  to  overlook  the  past  if  he  would  take  me 
into  the  scheme  and  keep  the  partnership  a  secret 


PA  VORITE  MURDER.  & 

from  my  father.  This  fair  offer  he  rejected,  and 
I  then  perceived  that  it  would  be  better  and  more 
satisfactory  if  he  were  dead. 

"My  plans  to  that  end  were  soon  perfected,  and 
communicating  them  to  my  dear  parents,  I  had 
the  gratification  of  receiving  their  approval.  My 
father  said  he  was  proud  of  me,  and  my  mother 
promised  that,  although  her  religion  forbade  her 
to  assist  in  taking  human  life,  I  should  have  the 
advantage  of  her  prayers  for  my  success.  As  a 
preliminary  measure,  looking  to  my  security  in 
case  of  detection,  I  made  an  application  for  mem 
bership  in  that  powerful  order,  the  Knights  of 
Murder,  and  in  due  course  was  received  as  a 
member  of  the  Ghost  Rock  Commandery.  On 
the  day  that  my  probation  ended  I  was  for  the 
first  time  permitted  to  inspect  the  records  of  the 
order  and  learn  who  belonged  to  it — all  the  rites 
of  initiation  having  been  conducted  in  masks. 
Fancy  my  delight  when,  in  looking  over  the  roll 
of  membership,  I  found  the  third  name  to  be  that 
of  my  uncle,  who  indeed  was  junior  vice-chancel 
lor  of  the  order!  Here  was  an  opportunity 
exceeding  my  wildest  dreams — to  murder  I  could 
add  insubordination  and  treachery.  It  was  what 
my  good  mother  would  have  called  'a  special 
Providence.' 

"At  about  this  time  something  occurred  which 
caused  my  cup  of  joy,  already  full,  to  overflow  on 
all  sides,  a  circular  cataract  of  bliss.  Three  men, 


4*  CAtf  SUCtt  THINGS  BEf 

strangers  in  that  locality,  were  arrested  for  the 
stage  robbery  in  which  I  had  lost  my  money  and 
watch.  They  were  brought  to  trial  and,  despite 
my  efforts  to  clear  them  and  fasten  the  guilt 
upon  three  of  the  most  respectable  and  worthy 
citizens  of  Ghost  Rock,  convicted  on  the  clearest 
proof.  The  murder  would  now  be  as  wanton  and 
reasonless  as  I  could  wish. 

"One  morning  I  shouldered  my  Winchester  rifle, 
and  going  over  to  my  uncle's  house,  near  Nigger 
Head,  asked  my  Aunt  Mary,  his  wife,  if  he  were 
at  home,  adding  that  I  had  come  to  kill  him. 
My  aunt  replied  with  a  peculiar  smile  that  so 
many  gentlemen  called  on  the  same  errand  and 
were  afterward  carried  away  without  having  per 
formed  it,  that  I  must  excuse  her  for  doubting 
my  good  faith  in  the  matter.  She  said  I  did  not 
look  as  if  I  would  kill  anybody,  so,  as  a  guarantee 
of  good  faith,  I  leveled  my  rifle  and  wounded  a 
Chinaman  who  happened  to  be  passing  the  house. 
She  said  she  knew  whole  families  who  could  do 
a  thing  of  that  kind,  but  Bill  Ridley  was  a  horse 
of  another  color.  She  said,  however,  that  I 
would  find  him  over  on  the  other  side  of  the 
creek  in  the  sheep  lot ;  and  she  added  that  she 
hoped  the  best  man  would  win. 

"My  Aunt  Mary  was  one  of  the  most  fair- 
minded  women  whom  I  have  ever  met. 

"I  found  my  uncle  down  on  his  knees  engaged 
in  skinning  a  sheep.  Seeing  that  he  had  neither 


MY  FAVORITE  MURDER.  43 

gun  nor  pistol  handy,  I  had  not  the  heart  to 
shoot  him,  so  I  approached  him,  greeted  him 
pleasantly,  and  struck  him  a  powerful  blow  on 
the  head  with  the  butt  of  my  rifle.  I  have 
a  very  good  delivery,  and  Uncle  William  lay 
down  on  his  side,  then  rolled  over  on  his  back, 
spread  out  his  fingers,  and  shivered.  Before  he 
could  recover  the  use  of  his  limbs  I  seized  the 
knife  that  he  had  been  using  and  cut  his  ham 
strings.  You  know,  doubtless,  that  when  you 
sever  the  tendon  A  chillis  the  patient  has  no 
further  use  of  his  leg;  it  is  just  the  same  as  if  he 
had  no  leg.  Well,  I  parted  them  both,  and  when 
he  revived  he  was  at  my  service.  As  soon  as  he 
comprehended  the  situation,  he  said : 

"  'Samuel,  you  have  got  the  drop  on  me,  and 
can  afford  to  be  liberal  about  this  thing.  I  have 
only  one  thing  to  ask  of  you,  and  that  is  that  you 
carry  me  to  the  house  and  finish  me  in  the  bosom 
of  my  family.' 

"I  told  him  I  thought  that  a  pretty  reasonable 
request,  and  I  would  do  so  if  he  would  let  me  put 
him  in  a  wheat  sack ;  he  would  be  easier  to  carry 
that  way,  and  if  we  were  seen  by  the  neighbors 
en  route  it  would  caused  less  remark.  He  agreed 
to  that,  and  going  to  the  barn  I  got  a  sack. 
This,  however,  did  not  fit  him ;  it  was  too  short 
and  much  wider  than  he  was ;  so  I  bent  his  legs, 
forced  his  knees  up  against  his  breast,  and  got 
him  into  it  that  way,  tying  the  sack  above  his 


44  CAN-  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

head.  He  was  a  heavy  man,  and  I  had  all  I 
could  do  to  get  him  on  my  back,  but  I  staggered 
along  for  some  distance  until  I  came  to  a  swing 
which  some  of  the  children  had  suspended  to  the 
branch  of  an  oak.  Here  I  laid  him  down  and  sat 
upon  him  to  rest,  and  the  sight  of  the  rope  gave 
me  a  happy  inspiration.  In  twenty  minutes  my 
uncle,  still  in  the  sack,  swung  free  to  the  sport  of 
the  wind.  I  had  taken  down  the  rope,  tied  one 
end  tightly  about  the  mouth  of  the  bag,  thrown 
the  other  across  the  limb,  and  hauled  him  up 
about  five  feet  from  the  ground.  Fastening  the 
other  end  of  the  rope  also  about  the  mouth  of 
the  sack,  I  had  the  satisfaction  to  see  my  uncle 
converted  into  a  huge  pendulum.  I  must  add 
that  he  was  not  himself  entirely  aware  of  the 
nature  of  the  change  which  he  had  undergone  in 
his  relation  to  the  exterior  world,  though  in  jus 
tice  to  a  brave  man's  memory  I  ought  to  say 
that  I  do  not  think  he  would  in  any  case  have 
wasted  much  of  my  time  in  vain  remonstrance. 

"Uncle  William  had  a  ram  which  was  famous  in 
all  that  region  as  a  fighter.  It  was  in  a  state  of 
chronic  constitutional  indignation.  Some  deep 
disappointment  in  early  life  had  soured  its  dispo 
sition,  and  it  had  declared  war  upon  the  whole 
world.  To  say  that  it  would  butt  anything  acces 
sible  is  but  faintly  to  express  the  nature  and 
scope  of  its  military  activity :  the  universe  was  its 
antagonist ;  its  method  was  that  of  a  projectile. 


MY  FAVORITE  MURDER.  45 

It  fought,  like  the  angels  and  devils,  in  mid-air, 
cleaving  the  atmosphere  like  a  bird,  describing  a 
parabolic  curve  and  descending  upon  its  victim  at 
just  the  exact  angle  of  incidence  to  make  the  most 
of  its  velocity  and  weight.  Its  momentum,  cal 
culated  in  foot-tons,  was  something  incredible.  It 
had  been  seen  to  destroy  a  four  year  old  bull  by 
a  single  impact  upon  that  animal's  gnarly  fore 
head.  No  stone  wall  had  ever  been  known  to 
resist  its  downward  swoop ;  there  were  no  trees 
tough  enough  to  stay  it ;  it  would  splinter  them 
into  matchwood,  and  defile  their  leafy  honors  in 
the  dust.  This  irascible  and  implacable  brute — 
this  incarnate  thunderbolt — this  monster  of  the 
upper  deep,  I  had  seen  reposing  in  the  shade  of 
an  adjacent  tree,  dreaming  dreams  of  conquest 
and  glory.  It  was  with  a  view  to  summoning  it 
forth  to  the  field  of  honor  that  I  suspended  its 
master  in  the  manner  described. 

"Having  completed  my  preparations,  I  imparted 
to  the  avuncular  pendulum  a  gentle  oscillation, 
and  retiring  to  cover  behind  a  contiguous  rock, 
lifted  up  my  voice  in  a  long,  rasping  cry  whose 
diminishing  final  note  was  drowned  in  a  noise 
like  that  of  a  swearing  cat,  which  emanated  from 
the  sack.  Instantly  that  formidable  sheep  was 
upon  its  feet  and  had  taken  in  the  military  situa 
tion  at  a  glance.  In  a  few  moments  it  had  ap 
proached,  stamping,  to  within  fifty  yards  of  the 
swinging  foeman  who,  now  retreating  and  anon 


46  CAN1  SUCH  THINGS  BE! 

advancing,  seemed  to  invite  the  fray.  Suddenly 
I  saw  the  beast's  head  drop  earthward  as  if  de 
pressed  by  the  weight  of  its  enormous  horns; 
then  a  dim,  white,  wavy  streak  of  sheep  pro 
longed  itself  from  that  spot  in  a  generally  hori 
zontal  direction  to  within  about  four  yards  of  a 
point  immediately  beneath  the  enemy.  There  it 
struck  sharply  upward,  and  before  it  had  faded 
from  my  gaze  at  the  place  whence  it  had  set  out 
I  heard  a  horrible  thump  and  a  piercing  scream, 
and  my  poor  uncle  shot  forward  with  a  slack  rope, 
higher  than  the  limb  to  which  he  was  attached. 
Here  the  rope  tautened  with  a  jerk,  arresting  this 
flight,  and  back  he  swung  in  a  breathless  curve  to 
the  other  end  of  his  arc.  The  ram  had  fallen,  a 
heap  of  indistinguishable  legs,  wool,  and  horns, 
but,  pulling  itself  together  and  dodging  as  its 
antagonist  swept  downward,  it  retired  at  ran 
dom,  alternately  shaking  its  head  and  stamping 
its  fore  feet.  When  it  had  backed  about  the 
same  distance  as  that  from  which  it  had  delivered 
the  assault  it  paused  again,  bowed  its  head  as  if 
in  prayer  for  victory,  and  again  shot  forward, 
dimly  visible  as  before — a  prolonging  white 
streak  with  monstrous  undulations,  ending  with 
a  sharp  ascension.  Its  course  this  time  was  at  a 
right  angle  to  its  former  one,  and  its  impatience 
so  great  that  it  struck  the  enemy  before  he  had 
nearly  reached  the  lowest  point  of  his  arc.  In 
consequence  he  went  flying  around  and  around  in 


FA  VORITE  MURDER.  47 

a  horizontal  circle,  whose  radius  was  about  equal 
to  half  the  length  of  the  rope,  which  I  forgot  to 
say  was  nearly  twenty  feet  long.  His  shrieks, 
crescendo  in  approach  and  diminuendo  in  reces 
sion,  made  the  rapidity  of  his  revolution  more 
obvious  to  the  ear  than  to  the  eye.  He  had 
evidently  not  yet  been  struck  in  a  vital  spot. 
His  posture  in  the  sack  and  the  distance  from  the 
ground  at  which  he  hung  compelled  the  ram  to 
operate  upon  his  lower  extremities  and  the  end  of 
his  back.  Like  a  plant  that  has  struck  its  root 
into  some  poisonous  mineral,  my  poor  uncle  was 
dying  slowly  upward. 

"After  delivering  its  second  blow  the  ram  had 
not  again  retired.  The  fever  of  battle  burned  hot 
in  its  heart ;  its  brain  was  intoxicated  with  the 
wine  of  strife.  Like  a  pugilist  who  in  his  rage 
forgets  his  skill  and  fights  ineffectively  at  half- 
arm's  length,  the  angry  beast  endeavored  to  reach 
its  fleeting  foe  by  awkward  vertical  leaps  as  he 
passed  overhead,  sometimes,  indeed,  succeeding  in 
striking  him  feebly,  but  more  frequently  over 
thrown  by  its  own  misguided  eagerness.  But  as 
the  impetus  was  exhausted  and  the  man's  circles 
narrowed  in  scope  and  diminished  in  speed,  bring 
ing  him  nearer  to  the  ground,  these  tactics  pro 
duced  better  results  and  elicited  a  superior  quality 
of  screams,  which  I  greatly  enjoyed. 

"Suddenly,  as  if  the  bugles  had  sung  truce,  the 
ram  suspended  hostilities  and  walked  away, 


48  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

thoughtfully  wrinkling  and  smoothing  its  great 
aquiline  nose,  and  occasionally  cropping  a  bunch 
of  grass  and  slowly  munching  it.  It  seemed  to 
have  tired  of  war's  alarms  and  resolved  to  beat 
the  sword  into  a  plowshare  and  cultivate  the  arts 
of  peace.  Steadily  it  held  its  course  away  from 
the  field  of  fame  until  it  had  gained  a  distance  of 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  There  it  stopped  and 
stood  with  its  rear  to  the  foe,  chewing  its  cud 
and  apparently  half  asleep.  I  observed,  however, 
an  occasional  slight  turn  of  its  head,  as  if  its 
apathy  were  more  affected  than  real. 

"Meantime  Uncle  William's  shrieks  had  abated 
with  his  motion,  and  nothing  was  heard  from  him 
but  long,  low  moans,  and  at  long  intervals  my 
name,  uttered  in  pleading  tones  exceedingly 
grateful  to  my  ear.  Evidently  the  man  had  not 
the  faintest  notion  of  what  was  being  done  to 
him,  and  was  inexpressibly  terrified.  When 
Death  comes  cloaked  in  mystery  he  is  terrible 
indeed.  Little  by  little  my  uncle's  oscillations 
diminished,  and  finally  he  hung  motionless.  I 
went  to  him  and  was  about  to  give  him  the  coup 
de  grace ,  when  I  heard  and  felt  a  succession  of 
smart  shocks  which  shook  the  ground  like  a  series 
of  light  earthquakes,  and  turning  in  the  direction 
of  the  ram,  saw  a  long  cloud  of  dust  approaching 
me  with  inconceivable  rapidity  and  alarming 
effect.  At  a  distance  of  some  thirty  yards  away 
it  stopped  short,  and  from  the  near  end  of  it  rose 


MY  FAVORITE  MURDER.  49 

into  the  air  what  I  at  first  thought  a  great  white 
bird.  Its  ascent  was  so  smooth  and  easy  and 
regular  that  I  could  not  realize  its  extraordinary 
celerity,  and  was  lost  in  admiration  of  its  grace. 
To  this  day  the  impression  remains  that  it  was  a 
slow,  deliberate  movement,  the  ram — for  it  was 
that  animal — being  upborne  by  some  power  other 
than  its  own  impetus,  and  supported  through  the 
successive  stages  of  its  flight  with  infinite  tender 
ness  and  care.  My  eyes  followed  its  progress 
through  the  air  with  unspeakable  pleasure,  all  the 
greater  by  contrast  with  my  former  terror  of  its 
approach  by  land.  Onward  and  upward  the 
noble  animal  sailed,  its  head  bent  down  almost 
between  its  knees,  its  fore  feet  thrown  back,  its 
hinder  legs  trailing  to  rear  like  the  legs  of  a  soar 
ing  heron.  At  a  height  of  forty  or  fifty  feet,  as 
nearly  as  I  could  judge,  it  attained  its  zenith  and 
appeared  to  remain  an  instant  stationary;  then, 
tilting  suddenly  forward  without  altering  the 
relative  position  of  its  parts,  it  shot  downward  on 
a  steeper  and  steeper  course  with  augmenting 
velocity,  passed  immediately  above  me  with  a 
noise  like  the  rush  of  a  cannon  shot,  and  struck 
my  poor  uncle  almost  squarely  on  the  top  of  the 
head !  So  frightful  was  the  impact  that  not  only 
the  neck  was  broken,  but  the  rope  too ;  and  the 
body  of  the  deceased,  forced  against  the  earth, 
was  crushed  to  pulp  beneath  the  awful  front  of 
that  meteoric  sheep!  The  concussion  stopped 


$0  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

all  the  clocks  between  Lone  Hand  and  Dutch 
Dan's,  and  Professor  Davidson,  who  happened  to 
be  in  the  vicinity,  promptly  explained  that  the 
vibrations  were  from  north  to  south.'* 

Altogether,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  in 
point  of  atrocity  my  murder  of  Uncle  William 
has  seldom  been  excelled. 


ONE  OFFICER,  ONE  MAN. 

CAPTAIN  GRAFFENREID  stood  at  the  head  of 
his  company.  The  regiment  was  not  engaged. 
It  formed  a  part  of  the  front  line  of  battle,  which 
stretched  away  to  the  right  with  a  visible  length 
of  nearly  two  miles  through  the  open  ground. 
The  left  flank  was  veiled  by  woods ;  to  the  right 
also  the  line  was  lost  to  sight,  but  extended  many 
miles.  A  hundred  yards  in  rear  was  a  second 
line;  behind  this  the  reserve  brigades  and  divi 
sions  in  column.  Batteries  of  artillery  occupied 
the  spaces  between  and  crowned  the  low  hills. 
Groups  of  horsemen — generals  with  their  staffs 
and  escorts,  and  field  officers  of  regiments  behind 
the  colors — broke  the  regularity  of  the  lines  and 
columns.  Numbers  of  these  figures  of  interest 
had  field  glasses  at  their  eyes  and  sat  as  motion 
less  as  statues,  stolidly  scanning  the  country  in 
front;  others  came  and  went  at  a  slow  canter, 
bearing  orders.  There  were  squads  of  stretcher 
bearers,  ambulances,  wagon  trains  with  ammuni 
tion,  and  officers'  servants  in  rear  of  all.  Of  all 
that  was  visible — for  still  in  rear  of  these,  along 
the  roads,  extended  for  many  miles  all  that  vast 
multitude  of  non-combatants  who  with  their 


52  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

various  impedimenta  are  assigned  to  the  inglori 
ous  but  important  duty  of  supplying  the  fighters' 
many  needs. 

An  army  in  line  of  battle  awaiting  attack  or 
prepared  to  deliver  it  presents  strange  contrasts. 
At  the  front  are  precision,  formality,  fixity,  and 
silence.  Toward  the  rear  these  characteristics  are 
less  and  less  conspicuous,  and  finally,  in  point  of 
space,  are  lost  altogether  in  confusion,  motion, 
and  noise.  The  homogeneous  becomes  hetero 
geneous.  Definition  is  lacking ;  repose  is  replaced 
by  an  apparently  purposeless  activity ;  harmony 
vanishes  in  hubbub,  form  in  disorder.  Commo 
tion  everywhere  and  ceaseless  unrest.  The  men 
who  do  not  fight  are  never  ready. 

From  his  position  at  the  right  of  his  company 
in  the  front  rank,  Captain  Graffenreid  had  an 
unobstructed  outlook  toward  the  enemy.  A 
half  mile  of  open  and  nearly  level  ground  lay 
before  him,  and  beyond  it  an  irregular  wood, 
covering  a  slight  acclivity;  not  a  human  being 
anywhere  visible.  He  could  imagine  nothing 
more  peaceful  than  the  appearance  of  that  pleas 
ant  landscape  with  its  long  stretches  of  brown 
fields  over  which  the  atmosphere  was  beginning 
to  quiver  in  the  heat  of  the  morning  sun.  Not  a 
sound  came  from  forest  or  field — not  even  the 
barking  of  a  dog  or  the  crowing  of  a  cock  at  the 
half-seen  plantation  house  on  the  crest  among 
the  trees.  Yet  every  man  in  those  miles  of 


ONE  OFFICER,   ONE  MAM  S3 

men   knew    that    he    and    death   were   face   to 
face. 

Captain  Graffenreid  had  never  in  his  life  seen 
an  armed  enemy,  and  the  war  in  which  his  regi 
ment  was  one  of  the  first  to  take  the  field  was 
two  years  old.  He  had  had  the  rare  advantage 
of  a  military  education,  and  when  his  comrades 
had  marched  to  the  front  he  had  been  detached 
for  administrative  service  at  the  capital  of  his 
State,  where  it  was  thought  that  he  could  be 
most  useful.  Like  a  bad  soldier  he  protested, 
and  like  a  good  one  obeyed.  In  close  official  and 
personal  relations  with  the  governor  of  his  State, 
and  enjoying  his  confidence  and  favor,  he  had 
firmly  refused  promotion,  and  seen  his  juniors 
elevated  above  him.  Death  had  been  busy  in 
his  distant  regiment ;  vacancies  among  the  field 
officers  had  occurred  again  and  again ;  but  from 
a  chivalrous  feeling  that  war's  rewards  belonged 
of  right  to  those  who  bore  the  storm  and  stress 
of  battle,  he  had  held  his  humble  rank  and  gener 
ously  advanced  the  fortunes  of  others.  His  silent 
devotion  to  principle  had  conquered  at  last :  he 
had  been  relieved  of  his  hateful  duties  and 
ordered  to  the  front,  and  now,  untried  by  fire, 
stood  in  the  van  of  battle  in  command  of  a  com 
pany  of  hardy  veterans,  to  whom  he  had  been 
but  a  name,  and  that  name  a  by-word.  By  none 
— not  even  by  those  of  his  brother  officers  in 
whose  favor  he  had  waived  his  rights — was  his 


54  CAN  SUCff  THINGS  BEt 

position  understood.  They  were  too  busy  to  be 
just ;  he  was  looked  upon  as  one  who  had  shirked 
his  duty,  until  forced  unwillingly  into  the  field. 
Too  proud  to  explain,  yet  not  too  insensible  to 
feel,  he  could  only  endure  and  hope. 

Of  all  the  Federal  Army  on  that  summer 
morning  none  had  accepted  battle  more  joyously 
than  Anderton  Graffenreid.  His  spirit  was  buoy 
ant,  his  faculties  were  riotous.  He  was  in  a  state 
of  mental  exaltation,  and  scarcely  could  endure 
the  enemy's  tardiness  in  advancing  to  the  attack. 
To  him  this  was  opportunity — for  the  result  he 
cared  nothing.  Victory  or  defeat,  as  God  might 
will ;  in  one  or  in  the  other  he  should  prove  him 
self  a  soldier  and  a  hero;  he  should  vindicate  his 
right  to  the  respect  of  his  men  and  the  compan 
ionship  of  his  brother  officers — to  the  considera 
tion  of  his  superiors.  How  his  heart  leaped  in 
his  breast  as  the  bugle  sounded  the  stirring  notes 
of  the  "assembly"!  With  what  a  light  tread, 
scarcely  conscious  of  the  earth  beneath  his  feet, 
he  strode  forward  at  the  head  of  his  company, 
and  how  exultingly  he  noted  the  tactical  disposi 
tions  which  placed  his  regiment  in  the  front  line ! 
And  if  perchance  some  memory  came  to  him  of 
a  pair  of  dark  blue  eyes  that  might  take  on  a 
tenderer  light  in  reading  the  account  of  that  day's 
doings,  who  shall  blame  him  for  the  unmartial 
thought  or  count  it  a  debasement  of  soldierly 
ardor? 


ONE  OFFICER,    ONE  MAN.  55 

Suddenly,  from  the  forest  a  half  mile  in  front — 
apparently  from  among  the  upper  branches  of  the 
trees,  but  really  from  the  ridge  beyond — rose  a 
tall  column  of  white  smoke.  A  moment  later 
came  a  deep,  jarring  explosion,  followed — almost 
attended  —  by  a  hideous  rushing  sound  that 
seemed  to  leap  forward  across  the  intervening 
space  with  inconceivable  rapidity,  rising  from 
whisper  to  roar  with  too  quick  a  gradation  for 
attention  to  note  the  successive  stages  of  its 
horrible  progression !  A  visible  ^tremor  ran  along 
the  lines  of  men ;  all  were  startled  into  motion. 
Captain  Graffenreid  dodged  and  threw  up  his 
hands  to  one  side  of  his  head,  palms  outward. 
As  he  did  so  he  heard  a  keen,  ringing  report,  and 
saw  on  a  hillside  behind  the  line  a  fierce  roll  of 
smoke  defiled  with  dust — the  shell's  explosion. 
It  had  passed  a  hundred  yards  to  his  left !  He 
heard,  or  fancied  he  heard,  a  low,  mocking  laugh, 
and  turning  in  the  direction  whence  it  came,  saw 
the  eyes  of  his  first  lieutenant  fixed  upon  him 
with  an  unmistakable  look  of  amusement.  He 
looked  along  the  line  of  faces  in  the  front  ranks. 
The  men  were  laughing.  At  him?  The  thought 
restored  the  color  to  his  bloodless  face — restored 
too  much  of  it.  His  cheeks  burned  with  a  fever 
of  shame. 

The  enemy's  shot  was  not  answered :  the  gen 
eral  in  command  at  that  exposed  part  of  the  line 
had  evidently  no  desire  to  provoke  a  cannonade. 


5$  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

For  the  forbearance  Captain  Graffenreid  was  con 
scious  of  a  sense  of  gratitude.  He  had  not 
known  that  the  flight  of  a  projectile  was  a  phe 
nomenon  of  so  appalling  character.  His  con 
ception  of  war  had  already  undergone  a  profound 
change,  and  he  was  conscious  that  his  new  feeling 
was  manifesting  itself  in  visible  perturbation. 
His  blood  seemed  boiling  in  his  veins;  he  had  a 
choking  sensation,  and  felt  that  if  he  had  a  com 
mand  to  give  it  would  be  inaudible,  or  at  least 
unintelligible.  The  hand  in  which  he  held  his 
sword  trembled ;  the  other  moved  automatically, 
clutching  at  various  parts  of  his  clothing.  He 
found  a  difficulty  in  standing  still  and  fancied 
that  his  men  observed  it.  Was  it  fear?  He 
feared  it  was. 

From  somewhere  away  to  the  right  came,  as 
the  wind  served,  a  low,  intermittent  murmur  like 
that  of  ocean  in  a  storm — like  that  of  a  distant 
railway  train — like  that  of  wind  among  the  pines 
— three  sounds  so  nearly  alike  that  the  ear,  unaided 
by  the  judgment,  cannot  distinguish  them  one 
from  another.  The  eyes  of  the  troops  were  drawn 
in  that  direction ;  the  mounted  officers  turned 
their  field  glasses  that  way.  Mingled  with  the 
sound  was  an  irregular  throbbing.  He  thought 
it,  at  first,  the  beating  of  his  fevered  blood  in  his 
ears;  next,  the  distant  tapping  of  a  bass  drum. 

"The  ball  is  opened  on  the  right  flank,"  said 
an  officer. 


ONE  OFFICER,   ONE  MAN.  57 

Captain  Graffenreid  understood :  the  sounds 
were  musketry  and  artillery.  He  nodded  and 
tried  to  smile.  There  was  apparently  nothing 
infectious  in  the  smile. 

Presently  a  light  line  of  blue  smoke  puffs  broke 
out  along  the  edge  of  the  wood  in  front,  suc 
ceeded  by  a  crackle  of  rifles.  There  were  keen, 
sharp  hissings  in  the  air,  terminating  abruptly 
with  a  thump  near  by.  The  man  at  Captain 
Graffenreid's  side  dropped  his  musket ;  his  knees 
gave  way  and  he  pitched  awkwardly  forward, 
falling  upon  his  face.  Somebody  shouted  "Lie 
down !"  and  the  dead  man  was  hardly  distin 
guishable  from  the  living.  It  looked  as  if  those 
few  rifle  shots  had  slain  ten  thousand  men.  Only 
the  field  officers  remained  erect ;  their  concession 
to  the  emergency  consisted  in  dismounting  and 
sending  their  horses  to  the  shelter  of  the  low  hills 
immediately  in  rear. 

Captain  Graffenreid  lay  alongside  the  dead  man, 
from  beneath  whose  breast  flowed  a  little  rill  of 
blood.  It  had  a  faint  sweetish  odor  which  sick 
ened  him.  The  face  was  crushed  into  the  earth 
and  flattened.  It  looked  yellow  already,  and  was 
repulsive.  Nothing  suggested  the  glory  of  a  sol 
dier's  death,  nor  mitigated  the  loathsomeness  of 
the  incident.  He  could  not  turn  his  back  upon 
the  body  without  facing  away  from  his  company. 

He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  forest,  where  all 
again  was  silent.  He  tried  to  imagine  what  was 


$8  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

going  on  there — the  lines  of  troops  forming  to 
attack,  the  guns  being  pushed  forward  by  hand  to 
the  edge  of  the  open.  He  fancied  he  could  see 
their  black  muzzles  protruding  from  the  under 
growth,  ready  to  deliver  their  storm  of  missiles — 
such  missiles  as  the  one  whose  shriek  had  so  un 
settled  his  nerves.  The  distension  of  his  eyes 
became  painful ;  a  mist  seemed  to  gather  before 
them ;  he  could  no  longer  see  across  the  field,  yet 
would  not  withdraw  his  gaze  lest  he  see  the  dead 
man  at  his  side.  The  fire  of  battle  was  not  now 
burning  very  brightly  in  this  warrior's  soul.  From 
inaction  had  come  introspection.  He  sought 
rather  to  analyze  his  feelings  than  distinguish 
himself  by  courage  and  devotion.  The  result  was 
profoundly  disappointing.  He  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands  and  groaned  aloud. 

The  hoarse  murmur  of  battle  grew  more  and 
more  distinct  upon  the  right ;  the  murmur  had, 
indeed,  become  a  roar,  the  throbbing  a  thunder. 
The  sounds  had  worked  round  obliquely  to  the 
front ;  evidently  the  enemy's  left  was  being  driven 
back,  and  the  propitious  moment  to  move  against 
the  salient  angle  of  his  line  would  soon  arrive. 
The  silence  and  mystery  in  front  were  ominous; 
all  agreed  that  they  boded  evil  to  the  assailants. 

Behind  the  prostrate  lines  sounded  the  hoof 
beats  of  galloping  horses;  the  men.  turned  to 
look.  A  dozen  staff  officers  were  riding  to  the 
various  brigade  and  regimental  commanders,  who 


ONE  OFFICER,   ONE  MAM  59 

had  remounted.  A  moment  more  and  there  was 
a  chorus  of  voices,  all  uttering  out  of  time  the 
same  words — "Attention,  battalion!"  The  men 
sprang  to  their  feet  and  were  aligned  by  the  com 
pany  commanders.  They  awaited  the  word 
"Forward" — awaited,  too,  with  beating  hearts 
and  set  teeth  the  gusts  of  lead  and  iron  that  were 
to  smite  them  at  their  first  movement  in  obedi 
ence  to  that  word.  The  word  was  not  given ;  the 
tempest  did  not  break  forth.  The  delay  was 
hideous,  maddening !  It  unnerved  like  a  respite 
at  the  guillotine. 

Captain  Graffenreid  stood  at  the  head  of  his 
company,  the  dead  man  at  his  feet.  He  heard 
the  battle  on  the  right — rattle  and  crash  of  musk 
etry,  ceaseless  thunder  of  cannon,  desultory  cheers 
of  invisible  combatants.  He  marked  ascending 
clouds  of  smoke  from  distant  forests.  He  noted 
the  sinister  silence  of  the  forest  in  front.  These 
contrasting  extremes  affected  the  whole  range  of 
his  sensibilities.  The  strain  upon  his  nervous 
organization  was  insupportable.  He  grew  hot 
and  cold  by  turns.  He  panted  like  a  dog,  and 
then  forgot  to  breathe  until  reminded  by  vertigo. 

Suddenly  he  grew  calm.  Glancing  downward, 
his  eyes  had  fallen  upon  his  naked  sword,  as  he 
held  it,  point  to  earth.  Foreshortened  to  his  view, 
it  resembled  somewhat,  he  thought,  the  short 
heavy  blade  of  the  ancient  Roman.  The  fancy 
was  full  of  suggestion,  malign,  fateful,  heroic ! 


60  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  8E? 

The  sergeant  in  the  rear  rank,  immediately 
behind  Captain  Graffenreid,  now  observed  a 
strange  sight.  His  attention  drawn  by  an  un 
common  movement  made  by  the  captain — a 
sudden  reaching  forward  of  the  hands  and  their 
energetic  withdrawal,  throwing  the  elbows  out, 
as  in  pulling  an  oar — he  saw  spring  from  between 
the  officer's  shoulders  a  bright  point  of  metal 
which  prolonged  itself  outward,  nearly  a  half 
arm's-length — a  blade!  It  was  faintly  streaked 
with  crimson,  and  its  point  approached  so  near  to 
the  sergeant's  breast,  and  with  so  quick  a  move 
ment,  that  he  shrank  backward  in  alarm.  That 
moment  Captain  Graffenreid  pitched  heavily 
forward  upon  the  dead  man  and  died. 

A  week  later  the  major-general  commanding 
the  left  corps  of  the  Federal  Army  submitted  the 
following  official  report : 

"SIR:  I  have  the  honor  to  report,  with  regard 
to  the  action  of  the  I9th  inst.,  that  owing  to  the 
enemy's  withdrawal  from  my  front  to  reinforce 
his  beaten  left,  my  command  was  not  engaged. 
My  loss  was  as  follows :  Killed,  one  officer,  one 
man." 


THE  MAN  OUT  OF  THE  NOSE. 

FROM  A  REPORTER'S  NOTEBOOK. 

AT  the  intersection  of  two  certain  streets  in 
that  part  of  San  Francisco  known  by  the  rather 
loosely  applied  name  of  North  Beach,  is  a  vacant 
lot,  which  is  rather  more  nearly  level  than  is  usu 
ally  the  case  with  lots,  vacant  or  otherwise,  in  that 
region.  Immediately  back  of  it,  to  the  south, 
however,  the  ground  slopes  steeply  upward,  the 
acclivity  broken  by  three  terraces  cut  into  the 
soft  rock.  It  is  a  place  for  goats  and  poor  peo 
ple,  several  families  of  each  class  having  occupied 
it  jointly  and  amicably  "from  the  foundation  of 
the  city."  One  of  the  very  humble  habitations 
of  the  lowest  terrace  is  noticeable  for  its  rude 
resemblance  to  the  human  face,  or  rather  to  such 
a  simulacrum  of  it  as  a  boy  might  cut  out  of  a 
hollowed  pumpkin,  meaning  no  offense  to  his  race. 
The  eyes  are  two  circular  windows,  the  nose  is  a 
door,  the  mouth  an  aperture  caused  by  removal 
of  a  board  below.  There  are  no  doorsteps.  As 
a  face,  this  house  is  too  large;  as  a  dwelling,  too 
small.  The  blank,  unmeaning  stare  of  its  lidless 
and  browless  eyes  is  uncanny. 

61 


62  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

Sometimes  a  man  steps  out  of  the  nose,  turns, 
and  passes  the  place  where  the  right  ear  should 
be,  and  making  his  way  through  the  throng  of 
children  and  goats  obstructing  the  narrow  walk 
between  his  neighbors'  doors  and  the  edge  of  the 
terrace,  gains  the  street  by  descending  some  rick 
ety  stairs.  Here  he  pauses  to  consult  his  watch, 
and  the  stranger  who  happens  to  pass  wonders 
why  such  a  man  as  that  can  care  what  is  the  hour. 
Longer  observations  would  show  him  that  the 
time  of  the  day  is  an  important  element  in  the 
man's  movements,  for  it  is  at  precisely  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  that  he  comes  forth  365  times  in 
every  year. 

Having  satisfied  himself  that  he  had  made  no 
mistake  in  the  hour,  he  replaces  the  watch  and 
walks  rapidly  southward  up  the  street  two 
squares,  turns  to  the  right,  and  as  he  approaches 
the  next  corner  fixes  his  eyes  on  an  upper  win 
dow  in  a  three  story  building  across  the  way. 
This  is  a  somewhat  dingy  structure,  which  was 
originally  of  red  brick,  and  is  now  gray.  It 
shows  the  touch  of  age  and  dust.  Built  for  a 
residence,  it  is  now  a  factory.  I  do  not  know 
what  is  made  there;  the  things  that  are  com 
monly  made  in  a  factory,  I  suppose.  I  only 
know  that  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of 
every  day  but  Sundays  it  is  full  of  activity  and 
clatter;  pulsations  of  some  great  engine  shake 
it  and  there  are  recurrent  screams  of  wood  tor- 


THE  MAN  OUT  OF  THE  NOSE.  63 

mented  by  the  saw.  At  the  window  on  which 
the  man  fixes  an  intensely  expectant  gaze  noth 
ing  ever  appears ;  the  glass,  in  truth,  has  such  a~ 
coating  of  dust  that  it  has  long  ceased  to  be 
transparent.  The  man  looks  at  it  without  stop 
ping  ;  he  merely  keeps  turning  his  head  more  and 
more  backward  as  he  leaves  the  building  behind. 
Passing  along  to  the  next  corner,  he  turns  to  the 
left,  goes  round  the  block,  and  comes  back  till  he 
reaches  the  point  diagonally  across  the  street 
from  the  factory — a  point  on  his  former  course, 
which  he  then  retraces,  looking  frequently  back 
ward  over  his  right  shoulder  at  the  window  while 
it  is  in  sight.  For  many  years  he  has  not  been 
known  to  vary  his  route  nor  to  introduce  a  single 
innovation  into  his  action.  In  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  he  is  again  at  the  mouth  of  his  dwelling, 
and  a  woman,  who  has  for  some  time  been  stand 
ing  in  the  nose,  assists  him  to  enter.  He  is  seen 
no  more  until  two  o'clock  the  next  day.  The 
woman  is  his  wife.  She  supports  herself  and  him 
by  washing  for  the  poor  people  among  whom 
they  live,  at  rates  which  destroy  Chinese  and 
domestic  competition. 

This  man  is  about  fifty-seven  years  of  age, 
though  he  looks  greatly  older.  His  hair  is  dead 
white.  He  wears  no  beard,  and  is  always  newly 
shaven.  His  hands  are  clean,  his  nails  well  kept. 
In  the  matter  of  dress  he  is  greatly  superior  to 
his  position  a.s  indicated  by  his  surroundings  and 


64  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BEf 

the  business  of  his  wife.  He  is,  indeed,  very 
neatly,  if  not  quite  fashionably,  clad.  His  silk  hat 
has  a  date  no  earlier  than  the  year  before  the  last, 
and  his  boots,  scrupulously  polished,  are  innocent 
of  patches.  I  am  told  that  the  suit  which  he 
wears  during  his  daily  excursions  of  fifteen  min 
utes  is  not  the  one  that  he  wears  at  home.  Like 
everything  else  that  he  has,  this  is  provided  and 
kept  in  repair  by  the  wife,  and  is  renewed  as  fre 
quently  as  her  scanty  means  permit. 

Thirty  years  ago  John  Hardshaw  and  his  wife 
lived  on  Rincon  Hill  in  one  of  the  finest  resi 
dences  of  that  once  aristocratic  quarter.  He  had 
once  been  a  physician,  but  having  inherited  a 
considerable  estate  from  his  father,  concerned 
himself  no  more  about  the  ailments  of  his  fellow- 
creatures,  and  found  as  much  work  as  he  cared 
for  in  managing  his  own  affairs.  Both  he  and  his 
wife  were  highly  cultivated  persons,  and  their 
house  was  frequented  by  a  small  set  of  such  men 
and  women  as  people  of  their  tastes  would  think 
worth  knowing.  So  far  as  these  knew,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hardshaw  lived  happily  together;  certainly 
the  wife  was  devoted  to  her  handsome  and  accom 
plished  husband,  and  exceedingly  proud  of  him. 

Among  their  acquaintances  were  the  Barwells 
— man,  wife,  and  two  children — of  Sacramento. 
Mr.  Barwell  was  a  civil  and  mining  engineer, 
whose  duties  took  him  much  from  home  and 
frequently  to  San  Francisco.  At  these  latter 


THE  MAN  OUT  OF   THE  NOSE.  65 

times  his  wife  commonly  accompanied  him  and 
passed  much  of  her  time  at  the  house  of  her 
friend,  Mrs.  Hardshaw,  always  with  her  two 
children,  of  whom  Mrs.  Hardshaw,  childless  her 
self,  grew  very  fond.  Unluckily,  her  husband 
grew  equally  fond  of  their  mother — a  good  deal 
fonder.  Still  more  unluckily,  that  attractive  lady 
was  less  wise  than  weak. 

At  about  three  o'clock  one  autumn  morning, 
Officer  No.  13  of  the  Sacramento  police  saw  a 
man  stealthily  leaving  the  rear  entrance  of  a  gen 
tleman's  residence,  and  promptly  arrested  him. 
The  man — who  wore  a  slouch  hat  and  shaggy 
overcoat— offered  the  policeman  one  hundred, 
then  five  hundred,  then  one  thousand  dollars  to 
be  released.  As  he  had  less  than  the  first  men 
tioned  sum  on  his  person,  the  officer  treated  his 
proposal  with  virtuous  contempt.  Before  reach 
ing  the  station  the  prisoner  agreed  to  give  him  a 
check  for  ten  thousand  dollars  and  remain  ironed 
in  the  willows  along  the  river  bank  until  it  should 
be  paid.  As  this  only  provoked  new  derision,  he 
would  say  no  more,  merely  giving  an  obviously 
fictitious  name.  When  he  was  searched  at  the 
station  nothing  of  value  was  found  on  him  but  a 
miniature  portrait  of  Mrs.  Barwell — the  lady  of 
the  house  at  which  he  was  caught.  The  case 
was  set  with  costly  diamonds;  and  some 
thing  in  the  quality  of  the  man's  linen  sent  a 
pang  of  unavailing  regret  through  the  severely 


66  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

incorruptible  bosom  of  Officer  No.  13.  There 
was  nothing  about  the  prisoner's  clothing  or  per 
son  to  identify  him,  and  he  was  booked  for 
burglary  under  the  name  that  he  had  given,  the 
honorable  name  of  John  K.  Smith.  The  K.  was 
an  inspiration  upon  which,  doubtless,  he  greatly 
prided  himself. 

In  the  mean  time  the  myterious  disappearance 
of  John  Hardshaw  was  agitating  the  gossips  of 
Rincon  Hill  in  San  Francisco,  and  was  even  men 
tioned  in  one  of  the  newspapers.  It  did  not 
occur  to  the  lady  whom  that  journal,  with  grace 
ful  tenderness,  described  as  his  "widow,"  to  look 
for  him  in  the  city  prison  at  Sacramento — a  town 
which  he  was  not  known  ever  to  have  visited.  As 
John  K.  Smith  he  was  arraigned  and,  waiving  ex 
amination,  committed  for  trial. 

About  two  weeks  before  the  trial,  Mrs.  Hard 
shaw,  accidentally  learning  that  her  husband  was 
held  in  Sacramento  under  an  assumed  name  on  a 
charge  of  burglary,  hastened  to  that  city  without 
daring  to  mention  the  matter  to  anyone,  and 
presented  herself  at  the  prison,  asking  for  an 
interview  with  her  husband,  John  K.  Smith. 
Haggard  and  ill  with  anxiety,  wearing  a  plain 
traveling  wrap  which  covered  her  from  neck  to 
foot,  and  in  which  she  had  passed  the  night  on 
the  steamboat,  too  anxious  to  sleep,  she  hardly 
showed  for  what  she  was,  but  her  manner  pleaded 
for  her  more  strongly  than  anything  that  she 


THE  MAN  OUT  OF   THE  NOSE.  67 

chose  to  say  in  evidence  of  her  right  to  admit 
tance.  She  was  permitted  to  see  him  alone. 

What  occurred  during  that  distressing  interview 
has  never  transpired ;  but  subsequent  events 
prove  that  Hardshaw  had  found  means  to  subdue 
her  will  to  his  own.  She  left  the  prison,  a  broken 
hearted  woman,  refusing  to  answer  a  single  ques 
tion,  and  returning  to  her  desolate  home  renewed 
her  inquiries  in  a  half-hearted  way  for  her  missing 
husband.  A  week  later  she  was  herself  missing: 
she  had  "gone  back  to  the  States" — nobody  knew 
any  more  than  that. 

On  his  trial  the  prisoner  pleaded  guilty,  "by 
advice  of  his  counsel,"  so  his  counsel  said.  Nev 
ertheless,  the  judge,  in  whose  mind  several  un 
usual  circumstances  had  created  a  doubt,  insisted 
on  the  district  attorney  placing  Officer  No.  13 
on  the  stand,  and  the  deposition  of  Mrs.  Barwell, 
who  was  too  ill  to  attend,  was  read  to  the  jury. 
It  was  very  brief :  she  knew  nothing  of  the  mat 
ter  except  that  the  likeness  of  herself  was  her 
property,  and  had,  she  thought,  been  left  on  the 
parlor  table  when  she  had  retired  on  the  night  of 
the  crime.  She  had  intended  it  as  a  present  to 
her  husband,  then  and  still  absent  in  Europe  on 
business  for  a  mining  company. 

This  witness'  manner,  when  making  the  depo 
sition  at  her  residence,  was  afterward  described 
by  the  district  attorney  as  most  extraordinary. 
Twice  she  had  refused  to  testify,  and  once  when 


68  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

the  deposition  lacked  nothing  but  her  signature 
she  had  caught  it  from  the  clerk's  hands  and  torn 
it  in  pieces.  She  had  called  her  children  to  the 
bedside  and  embraced  them  with  streaming  eyes, 
then  suddenly  sending  them  from  the  room,  she 
verified  her  statement  by  oath  and  signature,  and 
fainted — "slick  away,"  said  the  district  attorney. 
It  was  at  that  time  that  her  physician,  arriving 
upon  the  scene,  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance, 
and  grasping  the  representative  of  the  law  by  the 
collar  chucked  him  into  the  street  and  kicked  his 
accomplice  after  him.  The  insulted  majesty  of 
the  law  was  not  vindicated ;  the  victim  of  the 
indignity  did  not  even  mention  anything  of  all 
this  in  court.  He  was  ambitious  to  win  his  first 
case,  and  the  circumstances  of  the  taking  of  that 
deposition  were  not  such  as  would  give  it  weight 
if  related;  and  after  all,  the  man  on  trial  had 
committed  an  offense  against  the  law's  majesty 
only  less  heinous  than  that  of  the  irascible 
physician. 

By  suggestion  of  the  judge  the  jury  rendered  a 
verdict  of  guilty;  there  was  nothing  else  to  do, 
and  the  prisoner  was  sentenced  to  the  peniten 
tiary  for  three  years.  His  counsel,  who  had  ob 
jected  to  nothing  and  had  made  no  plea  for 
lenity,  had,  in  fact,  hardly  said  a  word,  wrung  his 
client's  hand  and  simply  left  the  room.  It  was 
obvious  to  the  whole  bar  that  he  had  been  en 
gaged  only  to  prevent  the  court  from  appointing 


MAti  OUT  OP   ?HE  N6S£.  69 

counsel  who  might  possibly  insist  on  making  a 
defense. 

John  Hardshaw  served  out  his  term  at  San 
Quentin,  and  when  discharged  was  met  at  the 
prison  gates  by  his  wife,  who  had  returned  from 
"the  States"  to  receive  him.  It  is  thought  they 
went  straight  to  Europe;  anyhow,  a  general 
power  of  attorney  to  a  lawyer  still  living  among 
us — from  whom  I  have  many  of  the  facts  of  this 
simple  history — was  executed  at  Paris.  This 
lawyer  in  a  short  time  sold  everything  that  Hard 
shaw  owned  in  California,  and  for  years  nothing 
was  heard  of  the  unfortunate  couple;  though 
many  to  whose  ears  had  come  vague  and  inaccu 
rate  intimations  of  their  strange  story,  and  who 
had  known  them,  recalled  their  personality  with 
tenderness  and  their  misfortunes  with  compassion. 

Some  years  later  they  returned,  broken  in  for 
tune  and  spirits,  he  in  health.  The  purpose  of 
their  return  I  have  not  been  able  to  ascertain. 
For  some  time  they  lived  under  the  name  of 
Johnson,  in  a  respectable  enough  quarter  south 
of  Market  Street,  pretty  well  out,  and  were  never 
seen  away  from  the  vicinity  of  their  dwelling. 
They  must  have  had  a  little  money  left,  for  it  is 
not  known  that  the  man  had  any  occupation,  the 
state  of  his  health  probably  not  permitting.  The 
woman's  devotion  to  her  invalid  husband  was 
matter  of  remark  among  their  neighbors;  she 
seemed  never  absent  from  his  side,  supporting 


70  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BEt 

and  cheering  him.  They  would  sit  for  hours  on 
one  of  the  benches  in  a  little  public  park,  she 
reading  to  him,  his  hand  in  hers,  her  light  touch 
occasionally  visiting  his  pale  brow,  her  still  beau 
tiful  eyes  frequently  lifted  from  the  book  to  look 
into  his  as  she  made  some  comment  on  the  text  or 
closed  the  volume  to  beguile  his  mood  with  talk 
of — what?  Nobody  had  ever  overheard  a  con 
versation  between  these  two.  The  reader  who 
has  had  the  patience  to  follow  their  history  to 
this  point  may  possibly  find  a  pleasure  in  con 
jecture:  there  was  probably  something  to  be 
avoided.  The  bearing  of  the  man  was  one  of 
profound  dejection;  in  fact,  the  unsympathetic 
youth  of  the  neighborhood,  with  that  keen  sense 
for  visible  characteristics  which  ever  distinguishes 
the  young  male  of  their  species,  sometimes  men 
tioned  him  among  themselves  by  the  name  of 
Spoony  Glum. 

It  occurred  one  day  that  John  Hardshaw  was 
posssesed  by  the  spirit  of  unrest.  God  knows 
what  led  him  whither  he  went,  but  he  crossed 
Market  Street  and  held  his  way  northward  over 
the  hills,  and  downward  into  the  region  known  as 
North  Beach.  Turning,  aimless,  to  the  left,  he 
-followed  his  toes  along  an  unfamiliar  street  until 
he  was  opposite  what  for  that  period  was  a  rather 
grand  residence,  and  for  this  is  a  rather  shabby 
factory.  Casting  his  eyes  casually  upward  he  saw 
at  an  open  window  what  it  had  been  better  he 


THE  MAN  OUT  Of  THE  NOSE.  11 

had  not  seen — the  face  and  figure  of  Elvira  Bar- 
well.  Their  eyes  met.  With  a  sharp  exclama 
tion,  like  the  cry  of  a  startled  bird,  the  lady 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  thrust  her  beautiful  body 
half  out  of  the  window,  clutching  the  casing  on 
each  side.  Arrested  by  the  cry,  the  people  in 
the  street  below  looked  up.  Hardshaw  stood 
motionless,  speechless,  his  eyes  two  flames. 
"Take  care!"  shouted  someone  in  the  crowd,  as 
the  woman  strained  further  and  further  forward, 
defying  the  silent,  implacable  law  of  gravitation, 
as  once  she  had  defied  that  other  law  which  God 
thundered  from  Sinai.  The  suddenness  of  her 
movements  had  tumbled  a  torrent  of  dark  hair 
about  her  shoulders,  and  now  it  was  blown  about 
her  cheeks,  almost  concealing  her  entire  face.  A 
moment  so,  and  then — !  A  fearful  cry  rang 
through  the  street,  as,  losing  her  balance,  she 
pitched  headlong  from  the  window,  a  confused 
and  whirling  mass  of  skirts,  limbs,  hair,  and 
white  face,  and  struck  the  pavement  with  a  hor 
rible  sound  and  a  force  of  impact  that  was  felt  a 
hundred  feet  away.  For  a  moment  all  eyes 
refused  their  office,  and  turned  from  the  sicken 
ing  spectacle  on  the  sidewalk.  Drawn  again  to 
that  horror,  they  saw  it  strangely  augmented. 
A  man,  hatless,  seated  flat  upon  the  paving 
stones,  held  the  broken,  the  bleeding  form  against 
his  breast,  kissing  the  mangled  cheeks  and  stream 
ing  mouth  through  tangles  of  wet  hair,  his  own 


7*  CAN  suctt  THINGS 

features  indistinguishably  crimson  with  the  blood 
that  half  strangled  him  and  ran  in  rills  from  his 
soaken  beard. 

The  reporter's  task  is  nearly  finished.  The 
Barwells  had  that  very  morning  returned  from  a 
two  years'  absence  in  Lima.  A  week  later  the 
widower,  now  doubly  desolate,  since  there  could 
be  no  missing  the  significance  of  Hardshaw's 
horrible  demonstration,  had  sailed  for  I  know  not 
what  distant  port,  he  has  never  come  back  to 
say.  Hardshaw — as  Johnson  no  longer — passed 
a  year  in  the  Stockton  asylum  for  the  insane, 
where  also  his  wife,  through  the  influence  of  pity 
ing  friends,  was  admitted  to  care  for  him.  When 
he  was  discharged,  not  cured  but  harmless,  they 
returned  to  the  city ;  it  would  seem  ever  to  have 
had  some  dreadful  fascination  for  them.  For  a 
time  they  lived  near  the  Mission,  in  poverty  only 
less  abject  than  that  which  is  their  present  lot ; 
but  it  was  too  far  away  from  the  objective  point 
of  the  man's  daily  pilgrimage.  They  could  not 
afford  car  fare.  So  that  poor  devil  of  an  angel 
from  heaven — wife  to  this  convict  and  lunatic — 
obtained,  at  a  fair  enough  rental,  the  blank-faced 
shanty  on  the  lower  terrace  of  Goat  Hill.  Thence 
to  the  structure  that  was  a  dwelling  and  is  a  fac 
tory  the  distance  is  not  so  great ;  it  is,  in  fact,  an 
agreeable  walk,  judging  from  the  old  gentleman's 
eager  and  cheerful  look  as  he  takes  it.  The 
return  journey  appears  to  be  a  trifle  wearisome. 


AN   OCCURRENCE    AT 
BROWNVILLE.* 

I  TAUGHT  a  little  country  school  near  Brown- 
ville,  which,  as  everyone  knows  who  has  had  the 
good  luck  to  live  there,  is  the  capital  of  a  consid 
erable  expanse  of  the  finest  scenery  in  California. 
The  town  is  somewhat  frequented  in  summer  by 
a  class  of  persons  whom  it  is  the  habit  of  the 
local  journal  to  call  "pleasure  seekers,"  but  who 
by  a  juster  classification  would  be  known  as  "the 
sick  and  those  in  adversity."  Brownville  itself 
might  rightly  enough  be  described,  indeed,  as  a 
summer  place  of  last  resort.  It  is  fairly  well 
endowed  with  boarding  houses,  at  the  least  per 
nicious  of  which  I  performed  twice  a  day  (lunch 
ing  at  the  schoolhouse)  the  humble  rite  of  cement 
ing  the  alliance  between  soul  and  body.  From 
this  "hostelry"  (as  the  local  journal  preferred  to 
call  it  when  it  did  not  call  it  a  "caravenserai")  to 
the  schoolhouse  the  distance  by  the  wagon  road 
was  about  a  mile  and  a  half;  but  there  was  a 
trail,  very  little  used,  which  led  over  an  interven- 

*  This  story  was  written  in  collaboration  with  Miss  Ina  Lillian 
Peterson,  to  whom  is  rightly  due  the  credit  for  whatever  merit  it 
may  have. 

73 


74  CAM  SUCH  THINGS  BE! 

ing  range  of  low,  heavily  wooded  hills,  consider 
ably  shortening  the  distance.  By  this  trail  I  was 
returning  one  evening  later  than  usual.  It  was 
the  last  day  of  the  term,  and  I  had  been  detained 
at  the  schoolhouse  until  almost  dark  preparing  an 
account  of  my  stewardship  for  the  trustees — two 
of  whom,  I  proudly  reflected,  would  be  able  to 
read  it,  and  the  third  (an  instance  of  the  domin 
ion  of  mind  over  matter)  would  be  overruled  in 
his  customary  antagonism  to  the  schoolmaster  of 
his  own  creation.  I  had  gone  not  more  than  a 
quarter  of  the  way  when,  finding  an  interest  in 
the  antics  of  a  family  of  lizards  which  dwelt 
thereabout,  and  seemed  full  of  reptilian  joy  for 
their  immunity  from  the  ills  incident  to  life  at  the 
Brownville  House,  I  sat  upon  a  fallen  tree  to  ob 
serve  them.  As  I  leaned  wearily  against  a  branch 
of  the  gnarled  old  trunk  the  twilight  deepened  in 
the  somber  woods  and  the  faint  new  moon  began 
casting  visible  shadows  and  gilding  the  leaves  of 
the  trees  with  a  tender  but  ghostly  light. 

Suddenly  I  heard  the  sound  of  voices — a 
woman's,  angry,  impetous,  rising  against  deep 
masculine  tones,  rich  and  musical.  I  strained 
my  eyes,  peering  through  the  dusky  shadows  of 
the  wood,  hoping  to  get  a  view  of  the  intruders 
on  my  solitude,  but  could  see  no  one.  For  some 
yards  in  each  direction  I  had  an  uninterrupted 
view  of  the  trail,  and,  knowing  of  no  other  within 
a  half  mile,  thought  the  persons  heard  must  be 


AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  BROWNVILLE.          75 

approaching  from  the  wood  at  one  side.  There 
was  no  sound  but  that  of  the  voices,  which  were 
now  so  distinct  that  I  could  catch  the  words. 
One  was  that  of  a  man,  evidently,  the  tone, 
though  deep  and  low,  giving  me  an  impression 
of  anger,  abundantly  confirmed  by  the  matter 
spoken : 

"I  will  have  no  threats;  you  are  powerless,  as 
you  very  well  know.  Let  things  remain  as  they 
are  or,  by  G — d !  you  shall  both  suffer  for  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?" — this  was  the  voice  of  a 
woman,  a  cultivated  voice,  the  voice  of  a  lady. 
"You  would  not — murder  us." 

There  was  no  reply,  at  least  none  that  was 
audible  to  me.  During  the  silence  I  peered  into 
the  wood  in  the  hope  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
speakers,  for  I  felt  sure  that  this  was  an  affair  of 
gravity  in  which  ordinary  scruples  ought  not  to 
count.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  woman  was  in 
peril ;  at  any  rate  the  man  had  not  disavowed  a 
willingness  to  murder.  When  a  man  is  enacting 
the  r61e  of  potential  assassin  he  has  not  the  right 
to  choose  his  audience. 

After  some  little  time  I  saw  them,  indistinct  in 
the  moonlight  among  the  trees.  The  man,  tall 
and  slender,  appeared  clothed  in  black;  the 
woman  wore,  as  nearly  as  I  could  make  out,  a 
gown  of  clinging  gray  stuff.  Evidently  they  were 
still  unaware  of  my  presence  in  the  shadow, 
though  for  some  reason  when  they  renewed  their 


stiCtt  r 

conversation  they  spoke  in  lower  tones  and  1 
could  no  longer  understand.  As  I  looked  the 
woman  seemed  to  sink  to  the  ground  and  raise 
her  hands  in  supplication,  as  is  frequently  done 
on  the  stage  and  never,  so  far  as  I  know,  any 
where  else,  and  I  am  not  altogether  sure  that  it 
was  done  in  this  instance.  The  man  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  her;  they  seemed  to  glitter  bleakly  in 
the  moonlight  with  an  expression  that  made  me 
apprehensive  that  he  would  turn  them  upon  me. 
I  do  not  know  by  what  impulse  I  was  moved, 
but  I  sprang  to  my  feet  out  of  the  shadow.  At 
that  instant  the  figures  vanished. 

I  peered  in  vain  through  the  spaces  among  the 
trees  and  clumps  of  undergrowth.  The  night 
wind  rustled  the  leaves;  the  lizards  had  retired 
early,  reptiles  of  exemplary  habits.  The  little 
moon  was  already  slipping  behind  a  black  hill  in 
the  west.  I  went  home,  somewhat  disturbed  in 
mind,  half  doubting  that  I  had  heard  or  seen  any 
living  thing  excepting  the  lizards.  It  all  seemed 
a  trifle  odd  and  uncanny.  It  was  as  if  among  the 
various  phenomena,  objective  and  subjective, 
that  made  the  sum  total  of  the  incident  there  had 
been  an  uncertain  element  which  had  diffused 
its  dubious  character  over  all — had  leavened  the 
whole  mass  with  unreality.  I  did  not  like  it. 

At  the  breakfast  table  the  next  morning  there 
was  a  new  face ;  opposite  me  sat  a  young  girl  at 
whom  I  glanced  carelessly  as  I  took  my  seat. 


AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  BROWNVILLE.          77 

In  speaking  to  the  high  and  mighty  female  per 
sonage  who  condescended  to  seem  to  wait  upon 
us,  this  girl  soon  invited  my  attention  by  the 
sound  of  her  voice,  which  was  like,  yet  not  alto 
gether  like,  the  one  still  murmuring  in  my  mem 
ory  of  the  previous  evening's  adventure.  A 
moment  later  another  girl,  a  few  years  older, 
entered  the  room  and  sat  at  the  left  of  the  other, 
speaking  to  her  a  gentle  "good  morning."  By 
her  voice  I  was  startled :  it  was  without  doubt 
the  one  of  which  the  first  girl's  had  reminded  me. 
Here  was  the  lady  of  the  sylvan  incident  sitting 
bodily  before  me,  "in  her  habit  as  she  lived !" 
Evidently  enough  the  two  were  sisters.  With  a 
nebulous  kind  of  apprehension  that  I  might  be 
recognized  as  the  mute  inglorious  hero  of  an 
adventure  which  had  in  my  consciousness  and  con 
science  something  of  the  character  of  eavesdrop 
ping,  I  allowed  myself  but  a  hasty  cup  of  the 
Likewarm  coffee  thoughtfully  provided  by  the 
prescient  waitress  for  the  emergency,  and  left  the 
table.  As  I  passed  out  of  the  house  into  the 
grounds  I  heard  a  rich,  strong  male  voice  singing 
an  aria  from  "Rigoletto."  I  am  bound  to  say 
that  it  was  exquisitely  sung,  too,  but  there  was 
something  in  the  performance  that  displeased  me, 
I  could  say  neither  what  nor  why,  and  I  walked 
rapidly  away. 

Returning  later  in  the  day  I  saw  the  elder  of 
the  two  young  women  standing  on  the  porch  and 


7  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BEt 

near  her  was  a  tall  man  in  black  clothing — the 
man  whom  I  had  expected  to  see.  All  day  the 
desire  to  know  something  of  these  persons  had 
been  uppermost  in  my  mind,  and  I  now*  resolved 
to  learn  what  I  could  of  them  in  any  way  that 
was  neither  dishonorable  nor  low. 

The  man  was  talking  easily  and  affably  to  his 
companion,  but  at  the  sound  of  my  footsteps  on 
the  gravel  walk  he  ceased,  and  turning  about 
looked  me  full  in  the  face.  He  was  apparently 
of  middle  age,  dark  and  uncommonly  handsome. 
His  attire  was  faultless;  his  bearing  easy  and 
graceful,  the  look  which  he  turned  upon  me  open, 
free,  and  devoid  of  any  suggestion  of  rudeness. 
Nevertheless  it  affected  me  with  a  distinct  emo 
tion  which  on  subsequent  analysis  in  memory 
appeared  to  be  compounded  of  hatred  and  dread 
— I  am  unwilling  to  call  it  fear.  A  second  later 
the  man  and  woman  had  disappeared.  They 
seemed  to  have  a  trick  of  disappearing.  On 
entering  the  house,  however,  I  saw  them  through 
the  open  doorway  of  the  parlor  as  I  passed ;  they 
had  merely  stepped  through  a  window  which 
opened  down  to  the  floor. 

Cautiously  "approached"  on  the  subject  of  her 
new  guests,  my  landlady  proved  not  ungracious. 
Restated  with,  I  hope,  some  small  reverence  for 
English  grammar  the  facts  were  these:  The 
two  girls  were  Pauline  and  Eva  Maynard  of  San 
Francisco ;  the  elder  was  Pauline.  The  man  was 


AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  BROWNVILLE.          79 

Richard  Banning,  their  guardian,  who  had  been 
the  most  intimate  friend  of  their  father,  now 
deceased.  Mr.  Benning  had  brought  them  to 
Brownville  in  the  hope  that  the  mountain  climate 
might  benefit  Eva,  who  was  thought  to  be  in 
danger  of  consumption. 

Upon  these  short  and  simple  annals  the  land 
lady  wrought  an  embroidery  of  eulogium  which 
abundantly  attested  her  faith  in  Mr.  Benning's 
will  and  ability  to  pay  for  the  best  that  her  house 
afforded.  That  he  had  a  good  heart  was  evident 
to  her  from  his  devotion  to  his  two  beautiful 
wards  and  his  really  touching  solicitude  for  their 
comfort.  The  evidence  impressed  me  as  insuffi 
cient,  and  I  silently  found  the  Scotch  verdict, 
"Not  proven." 

Certainly  Mr.  Benning  was  most  attentive  to 
his  wards.  In  my  strolls  about  the  country  I 
frequently  encountered  them  —  sometimes  in 
company  with  other  guests  of  the  hotel — explor 
ing  the  gulches,  fishing,  rifle  shooting,  and  other 
wise  wiling  away  the  monotony  of  country  life ; 
and  although  I  watched  them  as  closely  as  good 
breeding  would  permit  I  saw  nothing  that  would 
in  any  way  explain  the  strange  words  that  I  had 
overheard  in  the  wood.  I  had  grown  tolerably 
well  acquainted  with  the  young  ladies,  and  could 
exchange  looks  and  even  greetings  with  their 
guardian  without  actual  repugnance. 

A  month  went  by  and  I  had  almost  ceased  to 


80  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

interest  myself  in  their  affairs  when  one  night  our 
entire  little  community  was  thrown  into  excite 
ment  by  an  event  which  vividly  recalled  my 
experience  in  the  forest. 

This  was  the  death  of  the  elder  girl,  Pauline. 

The  sisters  had  occupied  the  same  bedroom  on 
the  third  floor  of  the  house.  Waking  in  the  gray 
of  the  morning  Eva  had  found  Pauline  dead 
beside  her  in  the  bed.  Later,  when  the  poor 
girl  was  weeping  beside  the  body  amid  a  throng 
of  sympathetic  if  not  very  considerate  persons, 
Mr.  Benning  entered  the  room  and  was,  appar 
ently,  about  to  take  her  hand.  She  drew  away 
from  the  side  of  the  dead  and  moved  slowly 
toward  the  door. 

"It  is  you,"  she  said — "you  who  have  done 
this.  You — you — you  !" 

"She  is  raving,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  He 
followed  her,  step  by  step,  as  she  retreated,  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  hers  with  a  steady  gaze  in  which 
there  was  nothing  of  tenderness  nor  of  compas 
sion.  She  stopped ;  the  hand  that  she  had  raised 
in  accusation  fell  to  her  side,  her  dilated  eyes 
contracted  visibly,  the  lids  slowly  dropped  over 
them,  veiling  their  strange  wild  beauty,  and  she 
stood  motionless  and  almost  as  white  as  the  dead 
girl  lying  near.  The  man  took  her  hand  and  put 
his  arm  gently  about  her  shoulders,  as  if  to  sup 
port  her.  Suddenly  she  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears  and  clung  to  him  as  a  child  to  its  mother. 


AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  BROWNVILLE.          8 1 

He  smiled  with  a  smile  that  affected  me  most 
disagreeably — perhaps  any  kind  of  smile  would 
have  done  so — and  led  her  silently  out  of  the 
room. 

There  was  an  inquest — perhaps  an  autopsy — 
and  the  customary  verdict:  the  deceased,  it 
appeared,  came  to  her  death  through  "heart 
disease."  It  was  before  the  invention  of  heart 
failure^  though  the  heart  of  poor  Pauline  had 
indubitably  failed.  The  body  was  embalmed 
and  taken  to  relatives  in  San  Francisco  by  some 
one  summoned  thence  for  the  purpose,  neither 
Eva  nor  Benning  accompanying  it.  Some  of  the 
hotel  gossips  ventured  to  think  that  very  strange, 
and  a  few  hardy  spirits  went  so  far  as  to  think  it 
very  strange  indeed ;  but  the  good  landlady  gen 
erously  threw  herself  into  the  breach,  saying  it 
was  owing  to  the  precarious  nature  of  the  girl's 
health.  It  is  not  of  record  that  either  of  the  two 
persons  most  affected  and  apparently  least  con 
cerned  made  any  explanation. 

One  evening  about  a  week  after  the  death  I 
went  out  upon  the  veranda  of  the  hotel  to  get  a 
book  that  I  had  left  there.  Under  some  vines 
shutting  out  the  moonlight  from  a  part  of  the 
space  I  saw  Richard  Benning,  for  whose  appari 
tion  I  was  prepared  by  having  previously  heard 
the  low,  sweet  voice  of  Eva  Maynard,  whom  also 
I  now  discerned,  standing  before  him  with  one 
hand  raised  to  his  shoulder,  and  her  eyes,  as 


*  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

nearly  as  I  could  judge,  gazing  upward  into  his. 
He  held  her  disengaged  hand  and  his  head  was 
bent  with  a  peculiar  dignity  and  grace.  Their 
attitude  was  that  of  lovers,  and  as  I  stood  in 
deep  shadow  to  observe  it  I  felt  even  guiltier 
than  on  that  memorable  night  in  the  wood.  I 
was  about  to  retire,  when  the  girl  spoke,  and  the 
contrast  between  her  words  and  her  attitude  was 
so  surprising  that  I  remained,  because  I  had 
merely  forgotten  to  go  away. 

"You  will  take  my  life,"  she  said,  "as  you  did 
Pauline's  last  week.  I  know  your  intention  as 
well  as  I  know  your  power,  and  I  ask  nothing, 
only  that  you  finish  your  work  without  needless 
delay,  and  let  me  be  at  peace." 

He  made  no  reply — merely  let  go  the  hand  that 
he  was  holding,  removed  the  other  from  his  shoul 
der,  and,  turning  away,  descended  the  steps  lead 
ing  to  the  garden,  and  disappeared  in  the 
shrubbery.  But  a  moment  later  I  heard,  seem 
ingly  from  a  great  distance,  his  fine  clear  voice  in 
a  barbaric  chant,  which,  as  I  listened,  brought 
before  some  inner  spiritual  sense  a  consciousness 
of  some  far  strange  land,  peopled  with  beings 
having  forbidden  powers.  The  song  held  me  in 
a  kind  of  spell,  but  when  it  had  died  away  I 
recovered  and  instantly  perceived  what  I  thought 
an  opportunity.  I  walked  out  of  my  shadow  to 
where  the  girl  stood.  She  turned  and  looked  at 
me  with  something  of  the  look,  it  seemed  to  me, 


AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  BROWNVILLE.          83 

of  a  hunted  hare.  Possibly  my  intrusion  had 
frightened  her. 

"Miss  Maynard,"  I  said,  "I  beg  you  tell  me 
who  that  man  is,  and  the  nature  of  his  power 
over  you.  Perhaps  this  is  impertinence  in  me, 
but  it  is  not  a  matter  for  idle  civilities.  When  a 
woman  is  in  danger  any  man  has  a  right  to  act." 

She  listened  without  apparent  emotion — almost 
I  thought  without  interest,  and  when  I  had  fin 
ished  she  closed  her  big  blue  eyes  as  if  unspeak 
ably  weary. 

"You  can  do  nothing,"  she  said.  I  took  hold 
of  her  arm,  gently  shaking  her  as  one  shakes  a 
person  falling  into  a  dangerous  sleep. 

"You  must  rouse  yourself,"  I  said;  "something 
must  be  done,  and  you  must  give  me  leave  to 
act.  You  have  said  that  that  man  killed  your 
sister,  and  I  believe  it — that  he  will  kill  you,  and 
I  believe  that." 

She  merely  raised  her  eyes  to  mine. 

"Will  you  not  tell  me  all?"  I  added. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  done,  I  tell  you — 
nothing.  And  if  I  could  do  anything  I  would 
not.  It  does  not  matter  in  the  least.  We  shall 
be  here  only  two  days  more ;  we  go  away  then, 
oh,  so  far!  If  you  have  observed  anything,  I  beg 
you  to  be  silent." 

"But  this  is  madness,  girl."  I  was  trying  by 
rough  speech  to  break  the  deadly  repose  of  her 
manner.  "You  have  accused  him  of  murder. 


84  CAN  SUCH   THINGS 

Unless  you  explain  these  things  to  me  I  shall  lay 
the  matter  before  the  authorities." 

This  roused  her,  but  in  a  way  that  I  did  not 
like.  She  lifted  her  head  proudly  and  said :  "Do 
not  meddle,  sir,  in  what  does  not  concern  you. 
This  is  my  affair,  Mr.  Moran,  not  yours." 

"It  concerns  every  person  in  the  country — in 
the  world,"  I  answered,  with  equal  coldness.  "If 
you  had  no  love  for  your  sister,  I,  at  least,  am 
concerned  for " 

"Listen,"  she  interrupted,  leaning  toward  me. 
"I  loved  her,  yes,  God  knows!  But  more  than 
that — beyond  all,  beyond  expression,  I  love  him. 
You  have  overheard  a  secret,  but  you  shall  not 
make  use  of  it  to  harm  him.  I  shall  deny  all. 
Your  word  against  mine — it  will  be  that.  Do 
you  think  your  'authorities'  will  believe  you?" 

She  was  now  smiling  like  an  angel,  and,  God 
help  me!  I  was  heels  over  head  in  love  with  her! 
Did  she,  by  some  of  the  many  methods  of  divina 
tion  known  to  her  sex,  read  my  feelings?  Her 
whole  manner  had  altered. 

"Come,"  she  said,  almost  coaxingly,  "promise 
that  you  will  not  be  impolite  again."  She  took 
my  arm  in  the  most  friendly  way.  "Come,  I  will 
walk  with  you.  He  will  not  know — he  will 
remain  away  all  night." 

Up  and  down  the  veranda  we  paced  in  the 
moonlight,  she  apparently  forgetting  her  recent 
bereavement,  cooing  and  murmuring  girlwise  of 


AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  BROWNVILLE.          85 

every  kind  of  nothing  in  all  Brownville ;  I  silent, 
consciously  awkward,  and  with  something  of  the 
feeling  of  being  concerned  in  an  intrigue.  It  was 
a  revelation — this  most  charming  and  apparently 
blameless  creature  coolly  and  confessedly  deceiv 
ing  the  man  for  whom  a  moment  before  she  had 
acknowledged  and  shown  the  supreme  love  which 
finds  even  death  an  acceptable  endearment. 

"Truly,"  I  thought  in  my  inexperience,  "here 
is  something  new  under  the  moon." 

And  the  moon  must  have  smiled. 

Before  we  parted  I  had  exacted  a  promise  that 
she  would  walk  with  me  the  next  afternoon — 
before  going  away  forever — to  the  Old  Mill,  one 
of  Brownville's  revered  antiquities,  erected  in 
1860. 

"If  he  is  not  about,"  she  added  gravely,  as  I 
let  go  the  hand  she  had  given  me  at  parting,  and 
of  which,  may  the  good  saints  forgive  me,  I 
strove  vainly  to  repossess  myself  when  she  had 
said  it — so  charming,  as  the  wise  Frenchman  has 
pointed  out,  do  we  find  woman's  infidelity  when 
we  are  its  objects,  not  its  victims.  In  apportion 
ing  his  benefactions  that  night  the  Angel  of  Sleep 
overlooked  me. 

The  Brownville  House  dined  early,  and  after 
dinner  on  the  next  day  Miss  Maynard,  who  had 
not  been  at  table,  came  to  me  on  the  veranda, 
attired  in  the  demurest  of  walking  costumes,  say 
ing  not  a  word.  "He"  was  evidently  "not  about." 


86  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE* 

We  went  slowly  up  the  road  that  led  to  the  Old 
Mill.  She  was  apparently  not  strong  and  at 
times  took  my  arm,  relinquishing  it  and  taking  it 
again  rather  capriciously,  I  thought.  Her  mood, 
or  rather  her  succession  of  moods,  was  as  muta 
ble  as  skylight  in  a  rippling  sea.  She  jested  as  if 
she  had  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  death,  and 
laughed  on  the  lightest  incitement,  and  directly 
afterward  would  sing  a  few  bars  of  some  grave 
melody  with  such  tenderness  of  expression  that  I 
had  to  turn  away  my  eyes  lest  she  should  see  the 
evidence  of  her  success  in  art,  if  art  it  was,  not 
artlessness,  as  then  I  was  compelled  to  think  it. 
And  she  said  the  oddest  things  in  the  most  un 
conventional  way,  skirting  sometimes  unfathom 
able  abysms  of  thought,  where  I  had  hardly  the 
courage  to  set  foot.  In  short,  she  was  fascinating 
in  a  thousand  and  fifty  different  ways,  and  at 
every  step  I  executed  a  new  and  profounder 
emotional  folly,  a  hardier  spiritual  indiscretion, 
incurring  fresh  liability  to  arrest  by  the  invisible 
constabulary  of  conscience  for  infractions  of  my 
own  peace. 

Arriving  at  the  mill,  she  made  no  pretense  of 
stopping,  but  turned  into  a  trail  leading  through 
a  field  of  stubble  toward  a  creek.  Crossing  by  a 
rustic  bridge,  we  continued  on  the  trail,  which 
now  led  uphill  to  one  of  the  most  picturesque 
spots  in  the  country.  The  Eagle's  Nest,  it  was 
called — the  summit  of  a  cliff  which  rose  sheer 


AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  BROWNVILLE.         87 

into  the  air  a  height  of  hundreds  of  feet  above 
the  forest  at  its  base.  From  this  elevated  point 
we  had  a  noble  view  of  another  valley  and  of  the 
opposite  hills  flushed  with  the  last  rays  of  the  set- 
ting  sun.  As  we  watched  the  light  escaping  to 
higher  and  higher  planes  from  the  encroaching 
flood  of  shadow  filling  the  valley  we  heard  foot 
steps,  and  in  another  moment  were  joined  by 
Richard  Benning. 

"I  saw  you  from  the  road,"  he  said  carelessly; 
"so  I  came  up." 

Being  a  fool,  I  neglected  to  take  him  by  the 
throat  and  pitch  him  into  the  treetops  below,  but 
muttered  some  polite  lie  instead.  Upon  the  girl 
the  effect  of  his  coming  was  immediate  and  un 
mistakable.  Her  face  was  suffused  with  the 
glory  of  love's  transfiguration:  the  red  light  of 
the  sunset  had  not  been  more  obvious  in  her  eyes 
than  was  now  the  lovelight  that  replaced  it. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  came !"  she  said,  giving  him 
both  her  hands ;  and,  God  help  me !  it  was  mani 
festly  true. 

Seating  himself  upon  the  ground  he  began  a 
lively  dissertation  upon  the  wild  flowers  of  the 
region,  a  number  of  which  he  had  with  him.  In 
the  middle  of  a  facetious  sentence  he  suddenly 
ceased  speaking  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  Eva, 
who  leaned  against  the  stump  of  a  tree  absently 
plaiting  grasses.  She  lifted  her  eyes  in  a  startled 
way  to  his,  as  if  she  had  felt  his  look.  She  then 


88  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE! 

rose,  cast  away  her  grasses,  and  moved  slowly 
away  from  him.  He  also  rose  and  continued 
looking  at  her.  He  had  still  in  his  hand  the 
bunch  of  flowers.  The  girl  turned,  as  if  to  speak, 
but  said  nothing.  I  recall  clearly  now  something 
of  which  I  was  but  half  conscious  then — the 
dreadful  contrast  between  the  smile  upon  her 
lips  and  the  terrified  expression  in  her  eyes  as  she 
met  his  steady  and  imperative  gaze.  I  know 
nothing  of  how  it  happened,  nor  how  it  was  that 
I  did  not  sooner  understand ;  I  only  know  that 
with  the  smile  of  an  angel  upon  her  lips  and  that 
look  of  terror  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  Eva  Maynard 
sprang  from  the  cliff  and  shot  crashing  into  the 
tops  of  the  pines  below ! 

How  and  how  long  afterward  I  reached  the 
place  I  cannot  say,  but  Richard  Benning  was 
already  there,  kneeling  beside  the  dreadful  thing 
that  had  been  a  woman.  * 

"She  is  dead—quite  dead,"  he  said  coldly.  "I 
will  go  to  town  for  assistance.  Please  do  me  the 
favor  to  remain." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  moved  away,  but  in  a 
moment  had  stopped  and  turned  about. 

"You  have  doubtless  observed,  my  friend,"  he 
said, '  'that  this  was  entirely  her  own  act.  I  did 
not  rise  in  time  to  prevent  it,  and  you,  not  know 
ing  her  mental  condition — you  could  not,  of 
course,  have  suspected." 

His  manner  maddened  me. 


AN  OCCURRENCE  AT  BROWNVILLE.         89 

"You  are  as  much  her  assassin,"  I  said,  "as  if 
your  damnable  hands  had  cut  her  throat." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  without  reply  and, 
turning,  walked  away.  A  moment  later  I  heard 
through  the  deepening  shadows  of  the  wood,  into 
which  he  had  disappeared,  a  rich,  strong,  baritone 
voice  singing  "La  donna  e  mobile,"  from  "Rig- 
oletto." 


JUPITER   DOKE,  BRIGADIER 
GENERAL. 

FROM  THE  SECRETARY  OF  WAR  TO  THE  HON. 
JUPITER  DOKE,  HARDPAN  CROSSROADS, 
POSEY  COUNTY,  ILLINOIS. 

WASHINGTON,  November  3,  1861. 
Having  faith  in  your  patriotism  and  ability,  the 
President    has  been    pleased    to   appoint  you  a 
brigadier  general  of  volunteers.     Do  you  accept? 

FROM  THE  HON.  JUPITER  DOKE  TO  THE 
SECRETARY  OF  WAR. 

HARDPAN  CITY,  ILL.,  November  9,  1861. 
It  is  the  proudest  moment  of  my  life.  The 
office  is  one  which  should  be  neither  sought  nor 
declined.  In  times  that  try  men's  souls  the 
patriot  knows  no  North,  no  South,  no  East,  no 
West.  His  motto  should  be :  "My  country,  my 
whole  country,  and  nothing  but  my  country."  I 
accept  the  great  trust  confided  in  me  by  a  free 
and  intelligent  people,  and  with  a  firm  reliance  on 
the  principles  of  constitutional  liberty,  and  invok 
ing  the  guidance  of  an  all-wise  Providence,  Ruler 

9* 


92  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

of  Nations,  shall  labor  so  to  discharge  it  as  to 
leave  no  blot  upon  my  political  escutcheon.  Say 
to  his  Excellency,  the  successor  of  the  immortal 
Washington  in  the  Seat  of  Power,  that  the  pat 
ronage  of  my  office  will  be  bestowed  with  an  eye 
single  to  securing  the  greatest  good  to  the  great 
est  number,  the  stability  of  republican  institutions 
in  Posey  County,  and  the  triumph  of  the  party  in 
all  elections;  and  to  this  I  pledge  my  life,  my 
fortune,  and  my  sacred  honor.  I  shall  at  once 
prepare  an  appropriate  response  to  the  speech  of 
the  chairman  of  the  committee  deputed  to  inform 
me  of  my  appointment,  and  I  trust  the  senti 
ments  therein  expressed  will  strike  a  sympathetic 
chord  in  the  public  heart,  as  well  as  command 
the  Executive  approval. 


FROM  THE  SECRETARY  OF  WAR  TO  MAJOR 
GENERAL  BLOUNT  WARDORG,  COMMANDING 
THE  MILITARY  DEPARTMENT  OF  EASTERN 
KENTUCKY. 

WASHINGTON,  November  14,  1861. 
I  have  assigned  to  your  department  Brigadier 
General  Jupiter  Doke,  who  will  soon  proceed  to 
Distilleryville,  on  the  Little  Buttermilk  River, 
and  take  command  of  the  Illinois  Brigade  at  that 
point,  reporting  to  you  by  letter  for  orders.  Is 
the  route  from  Covington  by  way  of  Bluegrass, 
Opossum  Corners,  and  Horsecave  still  infested 


JUPITER  DOKE,  BRIGADIER  GENERAL.        93 

with  bushwhackers,  as  reported  in  your  last  dis 
patch?     I  have  a  plan  for  cleaning  them  out. 


FROM  MAJOR  GENERAL  BLOUNT  WARDORG  TO 
THE  SECRETARY  OF  WAR. 

LOUISVILLE,  KY.,  November  20,  1861. 
The  name  and  services  of  Brigadier  General 
Doke  are  unfamiliar  to  me,  but  I  shall  be  pleased 
to  have  the  advantage  of  his  skill.  The  route 
from  Covington  to  Distilleryville  via  Opossum 
Corners  and  Horsecave  I  have  been  compelled  to 
abandon  to  the  enemy,  whose  guerilla  warfare 
made  it  impossible  to  keep  it  open  without 
detaching  too  many  troops  from  the  front.  The 
brigade  at  Distilleryville  is  supplied  by  steam 
boats  up  the  Little  Buttermilk. 


FROM  THE  SECRETARY  OF  WAR  TO  BRIGADIER 
GENERAL  JUPITER  DOKE,  HARD  PAN,  ILL. 

WASHINGTON,  November  26,  1861. 
I  deeply  regret  that  your  commission  had  been 
forwarded  by  mail  before  the  receipt  of  your 
letter  of  acceptance;  so  we  must  dispense  with 
the  formality  of  official  notification  to  you  by  a 
committee.  The  President  is  highly  gratified  by 
the  noble  and  patriotic  sentiments  of  your  letter, 
and  directs  that  you  proceed  at  once  to  your 
command  at  Distilleryville,  Ky.,  and  there  report 


94  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

by  letter  to  Major  General  Wardorg  at  Louisville, 
for  orders.  It  is  important  that  the  strictest 
secrecy  be  observed  regarding  your  movements 
until  you  have  passed  Covington,  as  it  is  desired 
to  hold  the  enemy  in  front  of  Distilleryville  until 
you  are  within  three  days  of  him.  Then  if  your 
approach  is  known  it  will  operate  as  a  demonstra 
tion  against  his  right  and  cause  him  to  strengthen 
it  with  his  left  now  at  Memphis,  Tenn.,  which  it 
is  desirable  to  capture  first.  Go  by  way  of  Blue- 
grass,  Opossum  Corners,  and  Horsecave.  All 
officers  are  expected  to  be  in  full  uniform  when 
en  route  to  the  front. 


FROM  BRIGADIER  GENERAL  JUPITER  DOKE  TO 
THE  SECRETARY  OF  WAR. 

COVINGTON,  KY.,  December  7,  1861. 
I  arrived  yesterday  at  this  point,  and  have  given 
my  proxy  to  Joel  Briller,  Esq.,  my  wife's  cousin, 
and  a  staunch  Republican,  who  will  worthily  rep 
resent  Posey  County  in  field  and  forum.  He 
points  with  pride  to  a  stainless  record  in  the  halls 
of  legislation,  which  have  often  echoed  to  his 
soul-stirring  eloquence  on  questions  which  lie  at 
the  very  foundation  of  popular  government.  He 
has  been  called  the  Patrick  Henry  of  Hardpan, 
where  he  has  done  yeoman's  service  in  the  cause 
of  civil  and  religious  liberty.  Mr.  Briller  left  for 
Distilleryville  last  evening,  and  the  standard 


JUPITER  DOKE,  BRIGADIER  GENERAL.       95 

bearer  of  the  Democratic  host  confronting  that 
stronghold  of  freedom  will  find  him  a  pillar  of 
strength.  I  have  been  asked  to  remain  here  and 
deliver  some  addresses  to  the  people  in  a  local 
contest  involving  issues  of  paramount  importance. 
That  duty  being  performed,  I  shall  in  person 
enter  the  arena  of  armed  debate  and  move  in  the 
direction  of  the  heaviest  firing,  burning  my  ships 
behind  me.  I  forward  by  this  mail  to  his  Excel 
lency  the  President  a  request  for  the  appointment 
of  my  son,  Jabez  Leonidas  Doke,  as  postmaster 
at  Hardpan.  I  would  take  it,  sir,  as  a  great  favor 
if  you  would  give  the  application  a  strong  verbal 
indorsement  as  the  appointment  is  in  the  line  of 
reform.  Be  kind  enough  to  inform  me  what  are 
the  emoluments  of  the  office  I  hold  in  the  mili 
tary  arm,  and  if  they  are  by  salary  or  fees?  Are 
there  any  perquisites?  My  mileage  account  will 
be  transmitted  monthly. 


FROM  BRIGADIER  GENERAL  JUPITER  DOKE  TO 
MAJOR  GENERAL  BLOUNT  WARDORG. 

DlSTlLLERYVlLLE,  KY.,  January  12,  1862. 
I  arrived  on  the  tented  field  yesterday  by 
steamboat,  the  recent  storms  having  inundated 
the  landscape,  covering,  I  understand,  the  greater 
part  of  a  Congressional  District.  I  am  pained  to 
find  that  Joel  Briller,  Esq.,  a  prominent  citizen  of 
Posey  County,  111.,  and  a  far-seeing  statesman 


96  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE* 

who  held  my  proxy,  and  who  a  month  ago  should 
have  been  thundering  at  the  gates  of  Disunion, 
has  not  been  heard  from,  and  has  doubtless  been 
sacrificed  upon  the  altar  of  his  country.  In  him 
the  American  people  lose  a  bulwark  of  freedom. 
I  would  respectfully  move  that  you  designate  a 
committee  to  draw  up  resolutions  of  respect  to 
his  memory,  and  that  the  office  holders  and  men 
of  the  command  wear  the  usual  badge  of  mourn 
ing  for  thirty  days.  I  shall  at  once  place  myself 
at  the  head  of  affairs  here,  and  am  now  ready  to 
entertain  any  suggestions  which  you  may  make, 
looking  to  a  better  enforcement  of  the  laws  in 
this  commonwealth.  The  militant  Democrats 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river  appear  to  be  con 
templating  extreme  measures.  They  have  two 
large  cannons  facing  this  way,  and  yesterday 
morning,  I  am  told,  some  of  them  came  down  to 
the  water's  edge  and  remained  in  session  for  some 
time,  making  infamous  allegations. 


FROM   THE    DIARY   OF   BRIGADIER  GENERAL 
JUPITER  DOKE,  AT  DISTILLERYVILLE,  KY. 

January  12,  1862. 

On  my  arrival  yesterday  at  the  Henry  Clay 
Hotel  (named  in  honor  of  the  late  far-seeing 
statesman)  I  was  waited  on  by  a  delegation  con 
sisting  of  the  three  colonels  intrusted  with  the 
command  of  the  regiments  of  my  brigade.  It 


JUPITER  DOKE,  BRIGADIER  GENERAL.        97 

was  an  occasion  that  will  be  memorable  in  the 
political  annals  of  America.  Forwarded  copies 
of  the  speeches  to  the  Posey  Maverick,  to  be 
spread  upon  the  record  of  the  ages.  The  gentle 
men  composing  the  delegation  unanimously  re 
affirmed  their  devotion  to  the  principles  of 
national  unity  and  the  Republican  party.  Was 
gratified  to  recognize  in  them  men  of  political 
prominence  and  untarnished  escutcheons.  At 
the  subsequent  banquet,  sentiments  of  lofty 
patriotism  were  expressed.  Wrote  to  Mr.  War- 
dorg  at  Louisville  for  instructions. 

January  13,  1862. — Leased  a  prominent  resi 
dence  (the  former  incumbent  being  absent  in 
arms  against  his  country)  for  the  term  of  one 
year,  and  wrote  at  once  for  Mrs.  Brigadier  Gen 
eral  Doke  and  the  vital  issues — excepting  Jabez 
Leonidas.  In  the  camp  of  treason  opposite  here 
there  are  supposed  to  be  three  thousand  mis 
guided  men  laying  the  ax  at  the  root  of  the  tree 
of  liberty.  They  have  a  clear  majority,  many  of 
our  men  having  returned  without  leave  to  their 
constituents.  We  could  probably  not  poll  more 
than  two  thousand  votes.  Have  advised  my 
heads  of  regiments  to  make  a  canvass  of  those 
remaining,  all  bolters  to  be  read  out  of  the 
phalanx. 

January  14,  1862. — Wrote  to  the  President, 
asking  for  the  contract  to  supply  this  command 
with  firearms  and  regalia  through  my  brother-in- 


98  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

law,  prominently  connected  with  the  manufactur 
ing  interests  of  the  country.  Club  of  cannon 
soldiers  arrived  at  Jayhawk,  three  miles  back 
from  here,  on  their  way  to  join  us  in  battle  array. 
Marched  my  whole  brigade  to  Jayhawk  to  escort 
them  into  town,  but  their  chairman,  mistaking  us 
for  so-called  Confederates,  opened  fire  on  the 
head  of  the  procession  and  by  the  extraordinary 
noise  of  the  cannon  balls  (I  had  no  conception  of 
it !)  so  frightened  my  horse  that  I  was  unseated 
without  a  contest.  The  meeting  adjourned  in  dis 
order  and  returning  to  camp  I  found  that  a  depu 
tation  of  the  enemy  had  crossed  the  river  in  our 
absence  and  made  a  division  of  the  loaves  and 
fishes.  Wrote  to  the  President  applying  for  the 
Gubernatorial  Chair  of  the  Territory  of  Idaho. 


FROM    EDITORIAL   ARTICLE    IN    THE    POSEY 
(ILL.)  "MAVERICK,"  JANUARY  20,  1862. 

Brigadier  General  Doke's  thrilling  account,  in 
another  column,  of  the  Battle  of  Distilleryville 
will  make  the  heart  of  every  loyal  Illinoisian  leap 
with  exultation.  The  brilliant  exploit  marks  an 
era  in  military  history,  and  as  General  Doke  says, 
"lays  broad  and  deep  the  foundations  of  Ameri 
can  prowess  in  arms."  As  none  of  the  troops 
engaged,  except  the  gallant  author-chieftain  (a 
host  in  himself)  hail  from  Posey  County,  he  justly 
considered  that  a  list  of  the  fallen  would  only 


JUPITER  DOKEt  BRIGADrER  GENERAL.        99 

occupy  our  valuable  space  to  the  exclusion  of 
more  important  matter,  but  his  account  of  the 
strategic  ruse  by  which  he  apparently  abandoned 
his  camp  and  so  inveigled  a  perfidious  enemy 
into  it  for  the  purpose  of  murdering  the  sick,  the 
unfortunate  countertempus  at  Jayhawk,  the  subse 
quent  dash  upon  a  trapped  enemy  flushed  with  a 
supposed  success,  driving  their  terrified  legions 
across  an  impassable  river  which  precluded  pur 
suit — all  these  "moving  accidents  by  flood  and 
field"  are  related  with  a  pen  of  fire  and  have  all 
the  terrible  interest  of  romance.  Verily,  truth  is 
stranger  than  fiction  and  the  pen  is  mightier  than 
the  sword.  When  by  the  graphic  power  of  the 
art  preservative  of  all  arts  we  are  brought  face  to 
face  with  such  glorious  events  as  these,  the  Maver 
ick's  enterprise  in  securing  for  its  thousands  of 
readers  the  services  of  so  distinguished  a  contrib 
utor  as  the  Great  Captain  who  made  the  history 
as  well  as  wrote  it  seems  a  matter  of  almost 
secondary  importance.  For  President  in  1865 
(subject  to  the  decision  of  the  Republican  Na 
tional  Convention)  Brigadier  General  Jupiter 
Doke  of  Illinois! 

FROM  MAJOR  GENERAL  BLOUNT  WARDORG  TO 
BRIGADIER  GENERAL  JUPITER  DOKE. 

LOUISVILLE,  January  22,  1862. 
Your  letter  apprising  me  of  your  arrival  at  Dis- 
tilleryville   was    delayed   in  transmission,  having 


100  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

only  just  been  received  (open)  through  the  cour 
tesy  of  the  Confederate  department  commander 
under  a  flag  of  truce.  He  begs  me  to  assure  you 
that  he  would  consider  it  an  act  of  cruelty  to 
trouble  you,  and  I  think  it  would  be.  Maintain, 
however,  a  threatening  attitude,  but  at  the  least 
pressure  retire.  Your  position  is  simply  an  out 
post  which  it  is  not  intended  to  hold. 


FROM  MAJOR  GENERAL  BLOUNT  WARDORG  TO 
THE  SECRETARY  OF  WAR. 

LOUISVILLE,  January  23,  1862. 
I  have  certain  information  that  the  enemy  has 
concentrated  twenty  thousand  troops  of  all  arms 
on  the  Little  Buttermilk.  According  to  your 
assignment,  General  Doke  is  in  command  of  the 
small  brigade  of  raw  troops  opposing  them.  It 
is  no  part  of  my  plan  to  contest  the  enemy's 
advance  at  that  point,  but  I  cannot  hold  myself 
responsible  for  any  reverses  to  the  brigade  men 
tioned,  under  its  present  commander.  I  think 
him  a  fool. 


FROM  THE   SECRETARY   OF   WAR   TO    MAJOR 
GENERAL  BLOUNT  WARDORG. 

WASHINGTON,  February  i,  1862. 
The  President  has  great  faith  in  General  Doke. 
If  your  estimate   of  him   is  correct,  however,  he 


JUPITER  DOKE,  BRIGADIER  GENERAL.      IOI 

would  seem  to  be  singularly  well  placed  where  he 
now  is,  as  your  plans  appear  to  contemplate  a 
considerable  sacrifice  for  whatever  advantages  you 
expect  to  gain. 

FROM  BRIGADIER  GENERAL  JUPITER  DOKE  TO 
MAJOR  GENERAL  BLOUNT  WARDORG. 

DlSTlLLERYVILLE,  February  i,  1862. 
To-morrow  I  shall  remove  my  headquarters  to 
Jayhawk  in  order  to  point  the  way  whenever  my 
brigade  retires  from  Distilleryville,  as  foreshad 
owed  by  your  letter  of  the  22d  hist.  I  have 
appointed  a  Committee  on  Retreat,  the  minutes 
of  whose  first  meeting  I  transmit  to  you.  You 
will  perceive  that  the  committee  having  been  duly 
organized  by  the  election  of  a  chairman  and  sec 
retary,  a  resolution  (prepared  by  myself)  was 
adopted,  to  the  effect  that  in  case  treason  again 
raises  its  hideous  head  on  this  side  of  the  river 
every  man  of  the  brigade  is  to  mount  a  mule  and 
the  procession  to  move  promptly  in  the  direction 
of  Louisville  and  the  loyal  North.  In  preparation 
for  such  an  emergency,  I  have  for  some  time  been 
collecting  mules  from  the  resident  Democracy, 
and  have  on  hand  2300  in  a  field  at  Jayhawk. 
Eternal  vigilance  is  the  price  of  liberty! 


102  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

FROM  MAJOR  GENERAL  GIBEON  J.  BUXTER, 
C.  S.  A.,  TO  THE  CONFEDERATE  SECRETARY 
OF  WAR. 

BUNG  STATION,  KY.,  February  4,  1862. 
On  the  night  of  the  2d  inst.,  our  entire  force, 
consisting  of  25,000  men  and  thirty-two  field 
pieces,  under  command  of  Major  General  Sim 
mons  B.  Flood,  crossed  by  a  ford  to  the  north 
side  of  Little  Buttermilk  River  at  a  point  three 
miles  above  Distilleryville  and  moved  obliquely 
down  and  away  from  the  stream,  to  strike  the 
Covington  turnpike  at  Jayhawk;  the  object 
being,  as  you  know,  to  capture  Covington, 
destroy  Cincinnati,  and  occupy  the  Ohio  Valley. 
For  some  months  there  had  been  in  our  front 
only  a  small  brigade  of  undisciplined  troops,  ap 
parently  without  a  commander,  who  were  useful 
to  us,  as  by  not  disturbing  them  we  could  create 
an  impression  of  our  weakness.  But  the  move 
ment  on  Jayhawk  having  isolated  them,  I  was 
^about  to  detach  an  Alabama  regiment  to  bring 
them  in,  my  division  being  the  leading  one.  The 
night  was  very  dark  and  the  weather  threatening. 
A  few  moments  later  (about  1 1  P.  M.)  an  earth- 
shaking  rumble  was  heard,  and  suddenly  the  head 
of  the  column  was  struck  by  one  of  the  terrible 
cyclones  for  which  this  region  is  famous,  and 
utterly  annihilated.  The  cyclone,  I  believe, 
passed  along  the  entire  length  of  the  road  back 
to  the  ford,  dispersing  or  destroying  our  whole 


JUPITER  DOKE,  BRIGADIER  GENERAL.      103 

army;  but  of  this  I  cannot  be  sure,  for  I  was 
lifted  from  the  earth  insensible  and  carried  back 
to  the  south  side  of  the  river.  Continuous  firing 
all  night  on  the  north  side,  and  the  reports  of 
such  of  our  men  as  have  recrossed  at  the  ford, 
convince  me  that  the  Yankee  brigade  has  exter 
minated  the  disabled  survivors.  Our  loss  has 
been  uncommonly  heavy.  Of  my  own  division  of 
15,000  infantry,  the  casualities — killed,  wounded, 
captured,  and  missing — are  14,994.  Of  General 
Dolliver  Billow's  division,  1 1,200  strong,  I  can  find 
but  two  officers  and  a  nigger  cook.  Of  the  artil 
lery,  800  men,  none  have  reported  on  this  side  of 
the  river.  General  Flood  is  dead.  I  have  as 
sumed  command  of  the  expeditionary  force,  but 
owing  to  the  heavy  losses  have  deemed  it  advis 
able  to  contract  my  line  of  supplies  as  rapidly  as 
possible.  I  shall  push  southward  to-morrow 
morning  early.  The  objects  of  the  campaign 
have  been  as  yet  but  partly  accomplished. 


FROM  MAJOR  GENERAL  DOLLIVER  BILLOWS, 
C.  S.  A.,  TO  THE  CONFEDERATE  SECRETARY 
OF  WAR. 

BUHAC,  KY.,  February  5,  1862. 

.  .    .     But  during  the  2d  they  had,  unknown 

to  us,  been  reinforced  by  fifty  thousand  cavalry, 

and  being  apprised  of  our  movement  by  a  spy, 

this  vast  body  was  drawn  up  in  the  darkness  at 


104  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

Jayhawk,  and  as  the  head  of  our  column  reached 
that  point  at  about  11  P.  M.,  fell  upon  it  with 
inconceivable  fury,  destroying  the  division  of 
General  Buxter  in  an  instant.  General  Baum- 
schank's  brigade  of  artillery,  which  was  in  the 
rear,  may  have  escaped — I  did  not  wait  to  see, 
but  withdrew  my  division  to  the  river  at  a  point 
several  miles  above  the  ford,  and  at  daylight 
ferried  it  across  on  two  fence  rails  lashed  together 
with  a  suspender.  Its  losses,  from  an  effective 
strength  of  11,200,  are  11,199.  General  Buxter  is 
dead.  I  am  changing  my  base  to  Knoxville,  Tenn. 


FROM  BRIGADIER  GENERAL  SCHNEDDEKER 
BAUMSCHANK,  C.  S.  A.,  TO  THE  CON 
FEDERATE  SECRETARY  OF  WAR. 

IODINE,  KY.,  February  6,  1862. 
.  .  .  Yoost  den  somdings  occur,  I  know  nod 
vot  it  vos — somdings  mackneefcent,  but  it  vas 
nod  vor — und  I  finds  meinselluf,  afder  leedle 
viles,  in  dis  blace,  midout  a  goon  und  mit  no 
gompny.  Sheneral  Peelows  is  dead.  You  vill 
blease  be  so  goot  as  to  resign  me — I  vights  no  more 
in  a  dam  gentry  vere  I  gets  vipped  und  know  nod 
how  it  vos  done. 


RESOLUTIONS  OF  CONGRESS,  FEBRUARY  15, 

1862. 

Resolved,  That  the  thanks  of  Congress  are  due, 
and  hereby  tendered,  to  Brigadier  General  Jupiter 


JUPITER  DOKE,  BRIGADIER  GENERAL.      105 

Doke  and  the  gallant  men  under  his  command  for 
their  unparalleled  feat  of  attacking— themselves 
but  2000  strong — an  army  of  25,000  men  and 
utterly  overthrowing  it,  killing  5327,  making  pris 
oners  of  19,003,  of  whom  more  than  half  were 
wounded,  taking  32  guns,  20,000  stand  of  small 
arms,  and,  in  short,  the  enemy's  entire  equip 
ment. 

Resolved,  That  for  this  unexampled  victory  the 
President  be  requested  to  designate  a  day  of 
thanksgiving  by  the  public  celebration  of  reli 
gious  rites  in  the  various  churches. 

Resolved,  That  he  be  requested,  in  further 
commemoration  of  the  great  event,  and  in  reward 
of  the  gallant  spirits  whose  deeds  have  added 
such  imperishable  luster  to  the  American  arms, 
to  appoint,  with  the  advice  and  consent  of  the 
Senate,  the  following  officers: 

One  major  general. 


STATEMENT  OF  MR.  HANNIBAL  ALCAZAR 
PEYTON,  OF  JAYHAWK,  KY. 

Dat  wus  a  almighty  dark  night,  sho',  and  dese 
yere  ole  eyes  aint  wuf  shucks,  but  I's  got  a  year 
like  a  squel,  an*  w'en  I  cotch  de  mummer  o'  v'ices 
I  knowed  dat  gang  b'long  on  de  far  side  o'  de 
ribber.  So  I  jes'  runs  in  de  house  an*  wakes 
Marse  Doke  an*  tells  him :  "Skin  outer  dis  fo"  yo' 
life!"  An*  de  Lo'd  bress  my  soul!  ef  dat  man 


106  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

didn*  go  right  fru  de  winder  in  his  shir*  tail  an* 
break  for  to  cross  de  mule  patch!  An'  dem 
twenty-free  hunerd  mules  dey  jes'  fink  it  is  de 
debble  hese'f  wid  de  brandin*  iron,  an*  dey  bu'st 
outen  dat  patch  like  a  yarthquake,  an'  pile  inter 
de  upper  ford  road,  an*  flash  down  it  five  deep, 
an'  it  full  o'  Confed'rates  from  en'  to  en'!  . 


THE  FAMOUS   GILSON   BEQUEST. 

IT  was  rough  on  Gilson.  Such  was  the  terse, 
cold,  but  not  altogether  unsympathetic  judgment 
of  the  better  public  opinion  at  Mammon  Hill — 
the  dictum  of  respectability.  The  verdict  of 
the  opposite,  or  rather  the  opposing,  element — 
the  element  that  lurked  red-eyed  and  restless 
about  Moll  Gurney's  "deadfall,"  while  respecta 
bility  took  it  with  sugar  at  Mr.  Jo.  Bentley's 
gorgeous  "saloon" — was  to  pretty  much  the  same 
general  effect,  though  somewhat  more  ornately 
expressed  by  the  use  of  picturesque  expletives, 
which  it  is  needless  to  quote.  Practically,  Mam 
mon  Hill  was  a  unit  upon  the  Gilson  question. 
And  it  must  be  confessed  that,  in  a  merely  tem 
poral  sense,  all  was  not  well  with  Mr.  Gilson. 
He  had  that  morning  been  led  into  town  by 
Mr.  Brentshaw,  and  publicly  charged  with  horse 
stealing;  the  sheriff  meantime  busying  himself 
about  The  Tree  with  a  new  manila  rope,  and 
Carpenter  Pete  being  actively  employed,  between 
drinks,  upon  a  pine  box  about  the  length  and 
breadth  of  Mr.  Gilson.  Society  having  rendered 
its  verdict,  there  remained  between  Gilson  and 
eternity  only  the  decent  formality  of  a  trial. 


Io8  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

These  are  the  short  and  simple  annals  of  the 
prisoner:  He  had  recently  been  a  resident  of 
New  Jerusalem,  on  the  north  fork  of  the  Little 
Stony,  but  had  come  to  the  newly  discovered 
placers  of  Mammon  Hill  immediately  before  the 
"rush"  by  which  the  former  place  was  depopu 
lated.  The  discovery  of  the  new  diggings  had 
occurred  opportunely  for  Mr.  Gilson,  for  it  had 
only  just  before  been  intimated  to  him  by  a  New 
Jerusalem  vigilance  committee  that  it  would 
better  his  prospects  in,  and  for,  life  to  go  some 
where  ;  and  the  list  of  places  to  which  he  could 
prudently  go  did  not  include  any  of  the  older 
camps,  so  he  naturally  established  himself  at 
Mammon  Hill.  Being  eventually  followed 
thither  by  all  his  judges,  he  ordered  his  conduct 
with  considerable  circumspection,  but  as  he  had 
never  been  known  to  do  an  honest  day's  work  at 
any  industry  sanctioned  by  the  stern  local  code 
of  morality  except  draw  poker  (at  which  he 
commonly  won)  he  was  still  an  object  of  sus 
picion.  Indeed,  it  was  conjectured  that  he  was 
the  author  of  the  many  daring  depredations  that 
had  recently  been  committed  with  pan  and  brush 
upon  the  sluice  boxes. 

Prominent  among  those  in  whom  this  suspicion 
had  ripened  into  a  steadfast  conviction  was  Mr. 
Brentshaw.  At  all  seasonable  and  unseasonable 
times  Mr.  Brentshaw  avowed  his  belief  in  Mr. 
Gilson's  connection  with  these  unholy  midnight 


THE  FAMOUS  GILSON  BEQUEST.  109 

enterprises,  and  his  own  willingness  to  prepare  a 
way  for  the  solar  beams  through  the  body  of  any 
one  who  might  think  it  expedient  to  utter  a  dif 
ferent  opinion — which,  in  his  presence,  no  one 
was  more  careful  not  to  do  than  the  peace  loving 
person  most  concerned.  Whatever  may  have 
been  the  truth  of  the  matter,  it  is  certain  that 
Gilson  frequently  lost  more  "clean  dust"  at  Jo. 
Bentley's  faro  table  than  it  was  recorded  in  local 
history  that  he  had  ever  honestly  earned  at  draw 
poker  in  all  the  days  of  the  camp's  existence. 
But  at  last  Mr.  Bentley — fearing,  it  may  be,  to 
lose  the  more  profitable  patronage  of  Mr.  Brent- 
shaw — peremptorily  refused  to  let  Gilson  copper 
the  queen,  intimating  at  the  same  time,  in  his 
frank,  forthright  way,  that  the  privilege  of  losing 
money  at  "this  bank"  was  a  blessing  appertaining 
to,  proceeding  logically  from,  and  coterminous 
with,  a  condition  of  notorious  commercial  right 
eousness  and  social  good  repute. 

The  Hill  thought  it  high  time  to  look  after  a 
person  whom  its  most  honored  citizen  had  felt  it 
his  duty  to  rebuke  at  a  ruinous  personal  sacrifice. 
The  New  Jerusalem  contingent,  particularly, 
began  to  abate  something  of  the  toleration 
begotten  of  amusement  at  their  own  blunder  in 
exiling  an  objectionable  neighbor  from  the  place 
which  they  had  left  to  the  place  whither  they 
had  come.  Mammon  Hill  was  at  last  of  one 
mind.  Not  much  was  said,  but  that  Gilson  must 


HO  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

hang  was  "in  the  air."  But  at  this  critical  junc 
ture  in  his  affairs  he  showed  signs  of  an  altered 
life  if  not  a  changed  heart.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
that  "the  bank"  being  closed  against  him,  he  had 
no  further  use  for  gold  dust.  Anyhow  the  sluice 
boxes  were  molested  no  more  forever.  But  it 
was  impossible  to  repress  the  abounding  energies 
of  such  a  nature  as  his,  and  he  continued,  possibly 
from  habit,  the  tortuous  courses  which  he  had 
pursued  for  profit  of  Mr.  Bentley.  After  a  few 
tentative  and  resultless  undertakings  in  the  way 
of  highway  robbery — if  one  may  venture  to  desig 
nate  road  agency  by  so  harsh  a  name — he  made 
one  or  two  modest  essays  in  horse  herding,  and 
it  was  in  the  midst  of  a  promising  enterprise  of 
this  character,  and  just  as  he  had  taken  the  tide 
in  his  affairs  at  its  flood,  that  he  made  shipwreck. 
For  on  a  misty,  moonlight  night  Mr.  Brentshaw 
rode  up  alongside  a  person  who  was  evidently  leav 
ing  that  part  of  the  country,  laid  a  hand  upon  the 
halter  connecting  Mr.  Gilson's  wrist  with  Mr. 
Harper's  bay  mare,  tapped  him  familiarly  on  the 
cheek  with  the  barrel  of  a  navy  revolver,  and  re 
quested  the  pleasure  of  his  company  in  a  direc 
tion  the  exact  opposite  of  that  in  which  he  was 
traveling. 

It  was  indeed  rough  on  Gilson. 

On  the  morning  after  his  arrest  he  was  tried, 
convicted,  and  sentenced.  It  only  remains,  so 
far  as  concerns  his  earthly  career,  to  hang  him, 


THE  FAMOUS  GILSON  BEQUEST.  ill 

reserving  for  more  particular  mention  his  last  will 
and  testament,  which,  with  great  labor,  he  con 
trived  in  prison,  and  in  which,  probably  from 
some  confused  and  imperfect  notion  of  the  rights 
of  captors,  he  bequeathed  everything  he  owned 
to  his  "lawfle  execketer  "  Mr.  Brentshaw.  The 
bequest,  however,  was  made  conditional  on  the 
legatee  taking  the  testator's  body  from  The  Tree 
and  "planting  it  white." 

So  Mr.  Gilson  was — I  was  about  to  say  "swung 
off,"  but  I  fear  there  has  been  already  something 
too  much  of  slang  in  this  straightforward  state 
ment  of  facts;  besides,  the  manner  in  which  the 
law  took  its  course  is  more  accurately  described 
in  the  terms  employed  by  the  judge  in  passing 
sentence — Mr.  Gilson  was  "strung  up." 

In  due  season  Mr.  Brentshaw,  somewhat 
touched,  it  may  well  be,  by  the  empty  compli 
ment  of  the  bequest,  repaired  to  The  Tree  to 
pluck  the  fruit  thereof.  When  taken  down  the 
body  was  found  to  have  in  its  waistcoat  pocket  a 
duly  attested  codicil  to  the  will  already  noted. 
The  nature  of  its  provisions  accounted  for  the 
manner  in  which  it  had  been  withheld,  for  had 
Mr.  Brentshaw  previously  been  made  aware  of 
the  conditions  under  which  he  was  to  succeed  to 
the  Gilson  estate  he  would  indubitably  have 
declined  the  responsibility.  Briefly  stated,  the 
purport  of  the  codicil  was  as  follows: 

"Whereas,  at  divers  times  and  in  sundry  places, 


112  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

certain  persons  had  asserted  that  during  his  life 
the  testator  had  robbed  their  sluice  boxes;  there 
fore,  if  during  the  five  years  next  succeeding  the 
date  of  this  instrument  anyone  should  make  proof 
of  such  assertion  before  a  court  of  law,  such  per 
son  was  to  receive  as  reparation  the  entire  per- 
sonal  and  real  estate  of  which  the  testator  died 
seized  and  possessed,  minus  the  expenses  of 
court  and  a  stated  compensation  to  the  executor, 
Henry  Clay  Brentshaw;  provided,  that  if  more 
than  one  person  made  such  proof  the  estate  was 
to  be  equally  divided  between  or  among  them. 
But  in  case  none  should  succeed  in  so  establish 
ing  the  testator's  guilt,  then  the  whole  property, 
minus  court  expenses,  as  aforesaid,  should  go  to 
the  said  Henry  Clay  Brentshaw  for  his  own  use, 
as  stated  in  the  will." 

The  syntax  of  the  remarkable  document  was 
perhaps  open  to  critical  objection,  but  that  was 
clearly  enough  the  meaning  of  it.  The  orthogra 
phy  conformed  to  no  recognized  system,  but 
being  mainly  phonetic  it  was  not  ambiguous.  As 
the  probate  judge  remarked,  it  would  take  five 
acres  to  beat  it.  Mr.  Brentshaw  smiled  good- 
humoredly,  and  after  performing  the  last  sad  rites 
with  amusing  ostentation,  had  himself  duly  sworn 
as  executor  and  conditional  legatee  under  the 
provisions  of  a  law  hastily  passed  (at  the  instance 
of  the  member  from  Mammon  Hill)  by  a  facetious 
legislature;  which  law  was  afterward  discovered 


THE  FAMOUS  GILSON  BEQUEST.  113 

to  have  also  created  three  or  four  lucrative 
offices,  and  authorized  the  expenditure  of  a  con 
siderable  sum  of  public  money  for  the  construc 
tion  of  a  certain  railway  bridge  that  with  greater 
advantage  might  perhaps  have  been  erected  on 
the  line  of  some  actual  railway. 

Of  course  Mr.  Brentshaw  expected  neither 
profit  from  the  will  nor  litigation  in  consequence 
of  its  unusual  provisions;  Gilson,  although  fre 
quently  "flush,"  had  been  a  man  whom  assessors 
and  tax  collectors  were  well  satisfied  to  lose  no 
money  by.  But  a  careless  and  merely  formal 
search  among  his  papers  revealed  the  title  deeds 
to  valuable  estates  in  the  East,  and  certificates 
of  deposit  for  incredible  sums  in  banks  less 
severely  scrupulous  than  that  of  Mr.  Jo.  Bentley. 

The  astounding  news  got  abroad  directly, 
throwing  the  Hill  into  a  fever  of  excitement. 
The  Mammon  Hill  Patriot,  whose  editor  had  been 
a  leading  spirit  in  the  proceedings  which  resulted 
in  Gilson's  departure  from  New  Jerusalem,  pub 
lished  a  most  complimentary  obituary  notice  of 
the  deceased,  and  was  good  enough  to  call  atten 
tion  to  the  fact  that  his  degraded  contemporary, 
the  Squaw  Gulch  Clarion,  was  bringing  virtue 
into  contempt  by  beslavering  with  flattery  the 
memory  of  one  who  in  life  had  spurned  the  vile 
sheet  as  a  nuisance  from  his  door.  Undeterred 
by  the  press,  however,  claimants  under  the  will 
were  not  slow  in  presenting  themselves  with  their 


114  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

evidence;  and,  great  as  was  the  Gilson  estate,  it 
appeared  conspicuously  paltry  considering  the 
vast  number  of  sluice  boxes  from  which  it  was 
averred  to  have  been  obtained.  The  country  rose 
as  one  man ! 

Mr.  Brentshaw  was  equal  to  the  emergency. 
With  a  shrewd  application  of  humble  auxiliary 
devices,  he  at  once  erected  above  the  bones  of  his 
benefactor  a  costly  monument,  overtopping  every 
rough  headboard  in  the  cemetery,  arid  on  this  he 
judiciously  caused  to  be  inscribed  an  epitaph  of 
his  own  composing,  eulogizing  the  honesty,  public 
spirit,  and  cognate  virtues  of  him  who  slept  be 
neath,  "a  victim  to  the  unjust  aspersions  of  Slan 
der's  viper  brood." 

Moreover,  he  employed  the  best  legal  talent  in 
the  Territory  to  defend  the  memory  of  his  de 
parted  friend,  and  for  five  long  years  the  Terri 
torial  courts  were  occupied  with  the  causes  grow 
ing  out  of  the  Gilson  bequest.  To  fine  forensic 
abilities  Mr.  Brentshaw  opposed  abilities  more 
finely  forensic;  in  bidding  for  purchasable  favors 
he  offered  prices  which  utterly  deranged  the 
market ;  the  judges  found  at  his  hospitable  board 
entertainment  for  man  and  beast,  the  like  of 
which  had  never  been  spread  in  the  Territory; 
with  mendacious  witnesses  he  confronted  wit 
nesses  of  superior  mendacity. 

Nor  was  the  battle  confined  to  the  temple  of 
the  blind  goddess — it  invaded  the  press,  the  pul- 


THE  FAMOUS  GILSON  BEQUEST.          US 

pit,  the  drawing  room.  It  raged  in  the  mart,  the 
exchange,  the  school ;  in  the  gulches,  and  on  the 
street  corners.  And  upon  the  last  day  of  the 
memorable  period  to  which  legal  action  against 
the  Gilson  will  was  limited,  the  angry  sun  went 
down  upon  a  region  in  which  the  moral  sense 
was  dead,  the  social  conscience  callous,  the 
intellectual  capacity  dwarfed,  enfeebled,  and 
confused  !  But  Mr.  Brentshaw  was  victorious  all 
along  the  line. 

On  that  night,  it  so  happened  that  the  ceme 
tery  in  one  corner  of  which  lay  the  now  honored 
ashes  of  the  late  Milton  Gilson,  Esq.,  was  partly 
under  water.  Swollen  by  incessant  rains,  Cat 
Creek  had  spilled  an  angry  flood  over  its  banks, 
which,  after  scooping  out  unsightly  hollows  wher 
ever  the  soil  had  been  disturbed,  had  partly  sub 
sided,  as  if  ashamed  of  the  sacrilege,  leaving 
exposed  much  that  had  been  piously  concealed. 
Even  the  famous  Gilson  monument,  the  pride 
and  glory  of  Mammon  Hill,  was  no  longer  a 
standing  rebuke  to  the  " viper  brood":  suc 
cumbing  to  the  sapping  current,  it  had  toppled 
prone  to  earth.  The  ghoulish  flood  had  ex 
humed  the  poor,  decayed  pine  coffin,  which  now 
lay  half  exposed  in  pitiful  contrast  with  the 
pompous  monolith  which,  like  a  giant  note  of 
admiration,  emphasized  the  disclosure. 

To  this  depressing  spot,  drawn  by  some  subtle 
influence  he  had  sought  neither  to  resist  nor 


Ii6  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

analyze,  came  Mr.  Brentshaw.  An  altered  man 
was  Mr.  Brentshaw.  Five  years  of  toil,  anxiety, 
and  wakefulness  had  dashed  his  black  locks  with 
streaks  and  patches  of  gray,  bowed  his  fine  figure, 
drawn  sharp  and  angular  his  face,  and  debased  his 
walk  to  a  doddering  shuffle.  Nor  had  this  lus 
trum  of  fierce  contention  wrought  less  upon  his 
heart  and  intellect.  The  careless  good  humor 
that  had  prompted  him  to  accept  the  trust  of  the 
dead  man  had  given  place  to  a  fixed  habit  of 
melancholy.  The  firm,  vigorous  intellect  had 
overriperied  into  the  mental  mellowness  of  second 
childhood.  His  broad  understanding  had  nar 
rowed  to  the  accommodation  of  a  single  idea; 
and  in  place  of  the  quiet,  cynical  incredulity  of 
former  days,  there  was  in  him  a  haunting  faith  in 
the  supernatural,  that  flitted  and  fluttered  about 
his  soul,  shadowy,  batlike,  ominous  of  insanity. 
Unsettled  in  all  else,  his  understanding  clung  to 
one  conviction  with  the  desperate  tenacity  of  a 
wrecked  intellect.  That  was  an  unshaken  belief 
in  the  entire  blamelessness  of  the  dead  Gil- 
son.  He  had  so  often  sworn  to  this  in  court  and 
asserted  it  in  private  conversation — had  so  fre 
quently  and  so  triumphantly  established  it  by 
testimony  that  had  come  expensive  to  him  (for 
that  very  day  he  had  paid  the  last  dollar  of  the 
Gilson  property  to  Mr.  Jo.  Bentley,  the  last  wit 
ness  to  the  Gilson  good  character) — that  it  had 
become  to  him  a  sort  of  religious  faith.  It 


THE  FAMOUS  GILSON  BEQUEST.  it? 

seemed  to  him  the  one  great  central  and  basic 
truth  of  life — the  sole  serene  verity  in  a  world  of 
lies. 

On  that  night,  as  he  seated  himself  pensively 
upon  the  prostrate  monument,  trying  by  the 
uncertain  moonlight  to  spell  out  the  epitaph 
which  five  years  before  he  had  composed  with  a 
chuckle  that  memory  had  not  recorded,  tears  of 
remorse  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  remembered 
that  he  had  been  mainly  instrumental  in  com 
passing  by  a  false  accusation  this  good  man's 
death ;  for  during  some  of  the  legal  proceedings, 
Mr.  Harper,  for  a  consideration  (forgotten),  had 
come  forward  and  sworn  that  in  the  little  trans 
action  with  his  bay  mare,  the  deceased  had  acted 
in  strict  accordance  with  the  Harperian  wishes, 
confidentially  communicated  to  the  deceased,  and 
by  him  faithfully  concealed  at  the  cost  of  life. 
All  that  Mr.  Brentshaw  had  since  done  for  the 
dead  man's  memory  seemed  pitifully  inadequate — 
most  mean,  paltry,  and  debased  with  selfishness! 

As  he  sat  there,  torturing  himself  with  futile 
regrets,  a  faint  shadow  fell  across  his  eyes. 
Looking  toward  the  moon,  hanging  low  in  the 
west,  he  saw  what  seemed  a  vague,  watery  cloud 
obscuring  her  disk;  but  as  it  moved  so  that  her 
beams  lit  up  one  side  of  it,  he  perceived  the 
clear,  sharp  outline  of  a  human  figure.  The 
apparition  became  momentarily  more  distinct, 
and  grew,  visibly ;  it  was  drawing  near.  Dazed 


Ii8  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

as  were  his  senses,  half  locked  up  with  terror  and 
confounded  with  dreadful  imaginings,  Mr.  Brent- 
shaw  yet  could  not  but  perceive,  or  think  he 
perceived,  in  this  unearthly  shape  a  strange  simil 
itude  to  the  mortal  part  of  the  late  Milton  Gilson, 
as  that  person  had  looked  when  taken  from  The 
Tree  five  years  before.  The  likeness  was  indeed 
complete,  even  to  the  full,  stony  eyes,  and  a 
certain  shadowy  circle  about  the  neck.  It  was 
without  coat  or  hat,  precisely  as  Gilson  had  been 
when  laid  in  his  poor,  cheap  casket  by  the  not 
ungentle  hands  of  Carpenter  Pete — for  whom 
someone  had  long  since  performed  the  same  sad 
office.  The  specter,  if  such  it  was,  seemed  to 
bear  something  in  its  hands  which  Mr.  Brentshaw 
could  not  clearly  make  out.  It  drew  nearer,  and 
paused  at  last  beside  the  coffin  containing  the 
ashes  of  the  late  Mr.  Gilson,  the  lid  of  which  was 
awry,  half  disclosing  the  uncertain  interior. 
Bending  over  this,  the  phantom  seemed  to  shake 
into  it  from  a  basin  some  dark  substance  of  dubi 
ous  consistency,  then  glided  stealthily  back  to  the 
lowest  part  of  the  cemetery.  Here  the  retiring 
flood  had  stranded  a  number  of  open  coffins, 
about  and  among  which  it  gurgled  with  low  sob 
bings  and  stilly  whispers.  Stooping  over  one  of 
these,  the  apparition  carefully  brushed  its  con 
tents  into  the  basin,  then  returning  to  its  own 
casket,  emptied  the  vessel  into  that,  as  before. 
This  mysterious  operation  was  repeated  at  every 


THE  FAMOUS  GILSON  REQUEST.  1 19 

exposed  coffin,  the  ghost  sometimes  dipping  its 
laden  basin  in  the  running  water,  and  gently 
agitating  it  to  free  it  of  the  baser  clay,  always 
hoarding  the  residuum  in  its  own  private  box. 
In  short,  the  immortal  part  of  the  late  Milton 
Gilson  was  cleaning  up  the  dust  of  its  neighbors 
and  providently  adding  the  same  to  its  own. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  phantasm  of  a  disordered  mind 
in  a  fevered  body.  Perhaps  it  was  a  solemn  farce 
enacted  by  pranking  existences  that  throng  the 
shadows  lying  along  the  border  of  another  world. 
God  knows;  to  us  is  permitted  only  the  knowl 
edge  that  when  the  sun  of  another  day  touched 
with  a  grace  of  gold  the  ruined  cemetery  of 
Mammon  Hill  his  kindliest  beam  fell  in  compas. 
sion  upon  the  white  still  face  of  Henry  Brent- 
shaw,  dead  among  the  dead. 


THE    STORY  OF  A   CONSCIENCE. 

I. 

CAPTAIN  PARROL  HARTROY  stood  at  the 
advanced  post  of  his  picket  guard,  talking  in  low 
tones  with  the  sentinel.  This  post  was  on  a 
turnpike,  which  bisected  the  captain's  camp,  a 
half  mile  in  rear,  though  the  camp  was  not  in 
sight  from  that  point.  The  officer  was  appar 
ently  giving  the  soldier  certain  instructions — was 
perhaps  merely  inquiring  if  all  were  quiet  in  front. 
As  the  two  stood  talking  a  man  approached  them 
from  the  direction  of  the  camp,  carelessly  whist 
ling,  and  was  promptly  halted  by  the  soldier. 
He  was  quite  evidently  a  civilian — a  tall  person, 
coarsely  clad  in  the  home-made  stuff  of  yellow 
gray,  called  "butternut,"  which  was  men's  only 
wear  in  the  latter  days  of  the  Confederacy. 
On  his  head  was  a  slouch  felt  hat,  once  white, 
from  beneath  which  hung  masses  of  uneven  hair, 
seemingly  unacquainted  with  either  scissors  or 
comb.  The  man's  face  was  rather  striking;  a 
broad  forehead,  high  nose,  and  thin  cheeks,  the 
mouth  invisible  in  the  full  dark  beard,  which 
seemed  as  ill-cared  for  as  the  hair.  The  eyes 


122  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

were  large  and  had  that  steadiness  and  fixity  of 
attention  which  so  frequently  mark  a  considering 
intelligence  and  a  will  not  easily  turned  from  its 
purpose — so  say  those  physiognomists  who  have 
that  kind  of  eyes.  On  the  whole,  this  was  a  man 
whom  one  would  be  likely  to  observe  and  be 
observed  by.  He  carried  a  walking  stick  freshly 
cut  from  the  forest  and  his  ailing  cowskin  boots 
were  white  with  dust. 

"Show  your  pass,"  said  the  Federal  soldier,  a 
trifle  more  imperiously  perhaps  than  he  would 
have  thought  necessary  if  he  had  not  been  under 
the  eye  of  his  commander,  who  with  folded  arms 
looked  on  from  the  roadside. 

"'Lowed  you'd  rec'lect  me,  gineral,"  said  the 
wayfarer  tranquilly,  while  producing  the  paper 
from  the  pocket  of  his  coat.  There  was  some 
thing  in  his  tone — perhaps  a  faint  suggestion  of 
irony — which  made  his  elevation  of  his  obstructor 
to  exalted  rank  less  agreeable  to  that  worthy 
warrior  than  promotion  for  gallantry  is  commonly 
found  to  be.  "You  'uns  have  to  be  purty  pertick- 
ler,  I  reckon,"  he  added,  in  a  more  conciliatory 
tone,  as  if  in  half  apology  for  being  halted. 

Having  read  the  pass,  with  his  rifle  resting  on 
the  ground,  the  soldier  handed  the  document 
back  without  a  word,  shouldered  his  weapon,  and 
returned  to  his  commander.  The  civilian  passed 
on  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  when  he  had 
penetrated  the  circumjacent  Confederacy  a  few 


THE   STORY  OF  A    CONSCIENCE.  123 

yards  resumed  his  whistling  and  was  soon  out  of 
sight  beyond  an  angle  in  the  road,  which  at  that 
point  entered  a  thin  forest.  Suddenly  the  officer 
undid  his  arms  from  his  breast,  drew  a  revolver 
from  his  belt,  and  sprang  forward  at  a  run  in  the 
same  direction,  leaving  his  sentinel  in  gaping 
astonishment  at  his  post.  After  making  to  the 
various  visible  forms  of  nature  a  solemn  promise 
to  be  damned,  that  gentleman  resumed  the  air  of 
stolidity  which  is  supposed  to  be  appropriate  to 
a  state  of  alert  military  attention. 


II. 

CAPTAIN  HARTROY  held  an  independent  com- 
mand.  His  force  consisted  of  a  company  of 
infantry,  a  squadron  of  cavalry,  and  a  section  of 
artillery,  detached  from  the  army  to  which  they 
belonged,  to  defend  an  important  defile  in  the 
Cumberland  Mountains  in  Tennessee.  It  was  a 
field  officer's  command  held  by  a  line  officer 
promoted  from  the  ranks,  where  he  had  quietly 
served  until  "discovered."  His  post  was  one  of 
exceptional  peril;  its  defense  entailed  a  heavy 
responsibility,  and  he  had  wisely  been  given  cor 
responding  discretionary  powers,  all  the  more 
necessary  because  of  his  distance  from  the  main 
army,  the  precarious  nature  of  his  communica 
tions,  and  the  lawless  character  of  the  enemy's 
irregular  troops  infesting  that  region.  He  had 
strongly  fortified  his  little  camp,  which  embraced 
a  village  of  a  half  dozen  dwellings  and  a  country 
store,  and  had  collected  a  considerable  quantity 
of  supplies.  To  a  few  resident  civilians  of  known 
loyalty,  with  whom  it  was  desirable  to  trade,  and 
of  whose  services  in  various  capacities  he  some 
times  availed  himself,  he  had  given  written  passes 
admitting  them  within  his  lines.  It  is  easy  to 

124 


THE  STORY  OF  A    CONSCIENCE.  125 

understand  that  an  abuse  of  this  privilege  in  the 
interest  of  the  enemy  might  entail  serious  conse 
quences.  Captain  Hartroy  had  issued  an  order 
to  the  effect  that  anyone  so  abusing  it  would  be 
summarily  shot. 

While  the  sentinel  had  been  examining  the 
civilian's  pass  the  captain  had  eyed  the  latter 
narrowly.  He  thought  his  appearance  familiar 
and  had  at  first  no  doubt  of  having  given  him  the 
pass  which  had  satisfied  the  sentinel.  It  was  not 
until  the  man  had  got  out  of  sight  and  hearing 
that  his  identity  was  disclosed  by  a  revealing 
light  from  memory.  With  soldierly  promptness 
of  decision  the  officer  had  acted  on  the  revelation. 


III. 

To  any  but  a  singularly  self-possessed  man  the 
apparition  of  an  officer  of  the  military  forces, 
formidably  clad,  bearing  in  one  hand  a  sheathed 
sword  and  in  the  other  a  cocked  revolver,  and 
rushing  in  furious  pursuit,  is  no  doubt  disquieting 
to  a  high  degree;  upon  the  man  to  whom  the 
pursuit  was  in  this  instance  directed  it  appeared 
to  have  no  other  effect  than  somewhat  to  inten 
sify  his  tranquillity.  He  might  easily  enough 
have  escaped  into  the  forest  to  the  right  or  the 
left,  but  chose  another  course  of  action — turned 
and  quietly  faced  the  captain,  saying  as  he  came 
up:  "I  reckon  ye  must  have  something  to  say  to 
me,  which  ye  disremembered.  What  mout  it  be, 
neighbor?" 

But  the  "neighbor"  did  not  answer,  being 
engaged  in  the  unneighborly  act  of  covering  him 
with  a  cocked  pistol. 

"Surrender,"  said  the  captain  as  calmly  as  a 
slight  breathlessness  from  exertion  would  permit, 
"or  you  die." 

There  was  no  menace  in  the  manner  of  this 
demand ;  that  was  all  in  the  matter  and  in  the 
means  of  enforcing  it.  There  was,  too,  something 

126 


THE  STORY  OF  A    CONSCIENCE.  127 

not  altogether  reassuring  in  the  cold  gray  eyes 
that  glanced  along  the  barrel  of  the  weapon. 
For  a  moment  the  two  men  stood  looking  at 
each  other  in  silence ;  then  the  civilian,  with  no 
appearance  of  fear— with  as  great  apparent 
unconcern  as  when  complying  with  the  less 
austere  demand  of  the  sentinel — slowly  pulled 
from  his  pocket  the  paper  which  had  satisfied 
that  humble  functionary  and  held  it  out,  saying: 

"  I  reckon  this  'ere  parss  from  Mister  Hartroy 
ii 

"The  pass  is  a  forgery,"  the  officer  said,  inter 
rupting.  "I  am  Captain  Hartroy — and  you  are 
Dramer  Brune." 

It  would  have  required  a  sharp  eye  to  observe 
the  slight  pallor  of  the  civilian's  face  at  these 
words,  and  the  only  other  manifestation  attesting 
their  significance  was  a  voluntary  relaxation  of 
the  thumb  and  fingers  holding  the  dishonored 
paper,  which,  falling  to  the  road  unheeded,  was 
rolled  by  a  gentle  wind  and  then  lay  still,  with  a 
coating  of  dust,  as  in  humiliation  for  the  lie  that 
it  bore.  A  moment  later  the  civilian,  still  looking 
unmoved  into  the  barrel  of  the  pistol,  said : 

"Yes,  I  am  Dramer  Brune,  a  Confederate  spy, 
and  your  prisoner.  I  have  on  my  person,  as  you 
will  soon  discover,  a  plan  of  your  fort  and  its 
armament,  a  statement  of  the  distribution  of  your 
men  and  their  number,  a  map  of  the  approaches, 
showing  the  positions  of  all  your  outposts.  My 


128  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

life  is  fairly  yours,  but  if  you  wish  it  taken  in  a 
more  formal  way  than  by  your  own  hand,  and  if 
you  are  willing  to  spare  me  the  indignity  of 
marching  into  camp  at  the  muzzle  of  your  pistol, 
I  promise  you  that  I  will  neither  resist,  escape, 
nor  remonstrate,  but  will  submit  to  whatever 
penalty  may  be  imposed." 

The  officer  lowered  his  pistol,  uncocked  it,  and 
thrust  it  into  its  place  in  his  belt.  Brune  ad 
vanced  a  step,  extending  his  right  hand. 

"It  is  the  hand  of  a  traitor  and  a  spy,"  said  the 
officer  coldly,  and  did  not  take  it.  The  other 
bowed. 

"Come,"  said  the  captain,  "let  us  go  to  camp; 
you  shall  not  die  until  to-morrow  morning." 

He  turned  his  back  upon  his  prisoner,  and 
these  two  extraordinary  men  retraced  their  steps 
and  soon  passed  the  sentinel,  who  expressed  his 
general  sense  of  things  by  a  needless  and  exag 
gerated  salute  to  his  commander. 


IV. 

EARLY  on  the  morning  after  these  events  the 
two  men,  captor  and  captive,  sat  in  the  tent  of 
the  former.  A  table  was  between  them  on  which 
lay,  among  a  number  of  letters,  official  and 
private,  which  the  captain  had  written  during  the 
night,  the  incriminating  papers  found  upon  the 
spy.  That  gentleman  had  slept  through  the 
night  in  an  adjoining  tent,  unguarded.  Both, 
having  breakfasted,  were  now  smoking. 

"Mr.  Brune,"  said  Captain  Hartroy,  "you 
probably  do  not  understand  why  I  recognized 
you  in  your  disguise,  nor  how  I  was  aware  of 
your  name." 

"I  have  not  sought  to  learn,  Captain,"  the 
prisoner  said  with  quiet  dignity. 

"Nevertheless  I  should  like  you  to  know — if 
the  story  will  not  offend.  You  will  perceive  that 
my  knowledge  of  you  goes  back  to  the  autumn  of 
1861.  At  that  time  you  were  a  private  in  an 
Ohio  regiment — a  brave  and  trusted  soldier.  To 
the  surprise  and  grief  of  your  officers  and  com 
rades  you  deserted  and  went  over  to  the  enemy. 
Soon  afterward  you  were  captured  in  a  skirmish, 
recognized,  tried  by  court-martial,  and  sentenced 

129 


130  GAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

to  be  shot.  Pending  the  execution  of  the  sen 
tence  you  were  confined,  unfettered,  in  a  freight 
car  standing  on  a  side  track  of  a  railway." 

"At  Grafton,  Virginia,"  said  Brune,  pushing  the 
ashes  from  his  cigar  with  the  little  finger  of  the 
hand  holding  it,  and  without  looking  up. 

"At  Grafton,  Virginia,"  the  captain  repeated. 
"One  dark  and  stormy  night  a  soldrer  was  placed 
on  guard  over  you  who  had  just  returned  from  a 
long,  fatiguing  march.  He  sat  on  a  cracker  box 
inside  the  car,  near  the  door,  his  rifle  loaded  and 
the  bayonet  fixed.  You  sat  in  a  corner  and  his 
orders  were  to  kill  you  if  you  attempted  to  rise." 

"But  if  I  asked  to  rise  he  might  call  the  corporal 
of  the  guard." 

"Yes.  As  the  long  silent  hours  wore  away  the 
soldier  yielded  to  the  demands  of  nature:  he 
himself  incurred  the  death  penalty  by  sleeping  at 
his  post  of  duty." 

"You  did." 

"What!  you  recognize  me?  you  have  known 
me  all  along?" 

The  captain  had  risen  and  was  walking  the  floor 
of  his  tent,  visibly  excited.  His  face  was  flushed, 
the  gray  eyes  had  lost  the  cold,  pitiless  look  which 
they  had  had  when  Brune  had  seen  them  over  the 
pistol  barrel;  they  had  softened  wonderfully. 

"I  knew  you,"  said  the  spy,  with  his  customary 
tranquillity,  "the  moment  you  faced  me,  demand 
ing  my  surrender.  Under  the  circumstances  it 


THE   STORY  OF  A    CONSCIENCE.  131 

would  have  been  hardly  becoming  in  me  to  recall 
these  matters.  I  am  perhaps  a  traitor,  certainly 
a  spy ;  but  I  should  not  wish  to  seem  a  suppliant." 

The  captain  had  paused  in  his  walk  and  was 
facing  his  prisoner.  There  was  a  singular  huski- 
ness  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke  again. 

"Mr.  Brune,  whatever  your  conscience  may 
permit  you  to  be,  you  saved  my  life  at  what  you 
must  have  believed  the  expense  of  your  own. 
Until  I  saw  you  yesterday  when  halted  by  my 
sentinel  I  believed  you  dead — thought  that  you 
had  suffered  the  fate  which  through  my  own 
crime  you  might  easily  have  escaped.  You  had 
but  to  step  from  the  car  and  leave  me  to  take 
your  place  before  the  firing  squad.  You  had  a 
divine  compassion.  You  pitied  my  fatigue.  You 
let  me  sleep,  watched  over  me,  and  as  the  time 
drew  near  for  the  relief  guard  to  come  and  detect 
me  in  my  crime,  you  gently  waked  me.  Ah, 
Brune,  Brune,  that  was  well  done — that  was  great 
—that " 

The  captain's  voice  failed  him ;  the  tears  were 
running  down  his  face  and  sparkled  upon  his 
beard  and  his  breast.  Resuming  his  seat  at  the 
table,  he  buried  his  face  in  his  arms  and  sobbed. 
All  else  was  silence.  Suddenly  the  clear  warble 
of  a  bugle  was  heard  sounding  the  "assembly." 
The  captain  started  and  raised  his  wet  face  from 
his  arms;  it  had  turned  ghastly  pale.  Outside, 
in  the  sunlight,  were  heard  the  stir  of  the  men 


132  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

falling  into  line ;  the  voices  of  the  sergeants  call 
ing  the  roll;  the  tapping  of  the  drummers  as  they 
braced  their  drums.  The  captain  spoke  again : 

"I  ought  to  have  confessed  my  fault  in  order 
to  relate  the  story  of  your  magnanimity ;  it  might 
have  secured  your  pardon.  A  hundred  times  I 
resolved  to  do  so,  but  shame  prevented.  Be 
sides,  your  sentence  was  just  and  righteous. 
Well,  Heaven  forgive  me!  I  said  nothing,  and 
my  regiment  was  soon  afterward  ordered  to 
Tennessee  and  I  never  heard." 

"It  was  all  right,  sir,"  said  Brune,  without 
visible  emotion;  "I  escaped  and  returned  to  my 
colors — the  Confederate  colors.  I  should  like  to 
add  that  before  deserting  from  the  Federal  service 
I  had  earnestly  asked  a  discharge,  on  the  ground 
of  altered  convictions.  I  was  answered  by  pun 
ishment." 

"Ah,  but  if  I  had  suffered  the  penalty  of  my 
crime — if  you  had  not  generously  given  me  the 
life  which  I  accepted  without  gratitude  you 
would  not  be  again  in  the  shadow  and  imminence 
of  death." 

The  prisoner  started  slightly  and  a  look  of 
anxiety  came  into  his  face.  One  would  have  said, 
too,  that  he  was  surprised.  At  that  moment  a 
lieutenant,  the  adjutant,  appeared  at  the  opening 
of  the  tent  and  saluted.  "Captain,"  he  said,  "the 
battalion  is  formed." 

Captain  Hartroy  had  recovered  his  composure. 


THE  STORY  OF  A   CONSCIENCE.  133 

He  turned  to  the  officer  and  said :  "Lieutenant, 
go  to  Captain  Graham  and  say  that  I  direct  him 
to  assume  command  of  the  battalion  and  parade 
it  outside  the  parapet.  This  gentleman  is  a 
deserter  and  a  spy ;  he  is  to  be  shot  to  death  in 
the  presence  of  the  troops.  He  will  accompany 
you,  unbound  and  unguarded." 

While  the  adjutant  waited  at  the  door  the  two 
men  inside  the  tent  rose  and  exchanged  ceremo 
nious  bows,  Brune  immediately  retiring. 

Half  an  hour  later  an  old  negro  cook,  the  only 
person  left  in  camp  except  the  commander,  was 
so  startled  by  the  sound  of  a  volley  of  musketry 
that  he  dropped  the  kettle  that  he  was  lifting  from 
a  fire.  But  for  his  consternation  and  the  hiss 
ing  which  the  contents  of  the  kettle  made  among 
the  embers,  he  might  also  have  heard,  nearer  at 
hand,  the  single  pistol  shot  with  which  Captain 
Hartroy  renounced  the  life  which  in  conscience 
he  could  no  longer  keep. 

In  compliance  with  the  terms  of  a  note  that 
he  left  for  the  officer  who  succeeded  him  in 
command,  he  was  buried,  like  the  deserter  and 
spy,  without  military  honors;  and  in  the  solemn 
shadow  of  the  mountain  which  knows  no  more  of 
war  the  two  sleep  well  in  long-forgotten  graves. 


THE  SECRET  OF  MACARGER'S 
GULCH. 

NORTHWESTWARDLY  from  Indian  Hill,  about 
nine  miles  as  the  crow  flies,  is  Macarger's  Gulch. 
It  is  not  much  of  a  gulch — a  mere  depression  be 
tween  two  wooded  ridges  of  inconsiderable  height. 
From  its  mouth  up  to  its  head — for  gulches,  like 
rivers,  have  an  anatomy  of  their  own — the  dis 
tance  does  not  exceed  two  miles,  and  the  width 
at  bottom  is  at  only  one  place  more  than  a  dozen 
yards ;  for  most  of  the  distance  on  either  side  of 
the  little  brook  which  drains  it  in  winter,  and  goes 
dry  in  the  early  spring,  there  is  no  level  ground 
at  all :  the  steep  slopes  of  the  hills,  covered  with 
an  almost  impenetrable  growth  of  manzanita  and 
chemisal,  are  divided  by  nothing  but  the  width 
of  the  water  course.  No  one  but  an  occasional 
enterprising  hunter  of  the  vicinity  ever  goes  into 
Macarger's  Gulch,  and  five  miles  away  it  is  un 
known,  even  by  name.  Within  that  distance  in 
any  direction  are  far  more  conspicuous  topo 
graphical  features  without  names,  and  one  might 
try  a  long  time  in  vain  to  ascertain  by  local 
inquiry  the  origin  of  the  name  of  this  one. 

About    midway    between  the   head    and    the 

'35 


I36  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

mouth  of  Macarger's  Gulch,  the  hill  on  the  right 
as  you  ascend  is  cloven  by  another  gulch,  a  short 
dry  one,  and  at  the  junction  of  the  two  is  a  level 
space  of  two  or  three  acres,  and  there,  a  few  years 
ago,  stood  an  old  board  house  containing  one 
small  room.  How  the  component  parts  of  the 
house,  few  and  simple  as  they  were,  had  been 
assembled  at  that  almost  inaccessible  point  is  a 
problem,  in  the  solution  of  which  there  would  be 
greater  satisfaction  than  advantage.  Possibly,  the 
creek  bed  is  a  reformed  road.  It  is  certain  that 
the  gulch  was  at  one  time  pretty  thoroughly 
prospected  by  miners,  who  must  have  had  some 
means  of  getting  in  with  at  least  pack  animals 
carrying  tools  and  supplies;  their  profits,  appar 
ently,  were  not  such  as  would  have  justified  any 
considerable  outlay  to  connect  Macarger's  Gulch 
with  any  center  of  civilization  enjoying  the  dis 
tinction  of  a  sawmill.  The  house,  however,  was 
there,  most  of  it.  It  lacked  a  door  and  a  window 
frame,  and  the  chimney  of  mud  and  stones  had 
fallen  into  an  unlovely  heap,  overgrown  with  rank 
weeds.  Such  humble  furniture  as  there  may  once 
have  been,  and  much  of  the  lower  weatherboard- 
ing,  had  served  as  fuel  in  the  camp  fires  of  hunt 
ers  ;  as  had  also,  probably,  the  curbing  of  an  old 
well,  which  at  the  time  I  write  of  existed  in  the 
form  of  a  rather  wide  but  not  very  deep  depres 
sion  near  by. 

One  afternoon  in  the  summer  of  1874,  I  passed 


THE  SECRET  Of  MACARGEtfS  GULCH.        137 

up  Macarger's  Gulch  from  the  narrow  valley  into 
which  it  opens,  by  following  the  dry  bed  of  the 
brook.  I  was  quail  shooting  and  had  made  a  bag 
of  about  a  dozen  birds  by  the  time  I  had  reached 
the  house  described,  of  whose  existence  I  was 
until  then  unaware.  After  rather  carelessly 
inspecting  the  ruin,  I  resumed  my  sport,  and 
having  fairly  good  success,  prolonged  it  until 
nearly  sunset,  when  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  was 
a  long  way  from  any  human  habitation — too  far 
to  reach  one  by  nightfall.  But  in  my  game  bag 
was  food,  and  the  old  house  would  afford  shelter, 
if  shelter  were  needed  on  a  warm  and  dewless 
night  in  the  foothills  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  where 
one  may  sleep  in  comfort  on  the  pine  needles, 
without  covering.  I  am  fond  of  solitude  and 
love  the  night,  so  my  resolution  to  "camp  out" 
was  soon  taken,  and  by  the  time  that  it  was  dark 
I  had  made  my  bed  of  boughs  and  grasses  in  a 
corner  of  the  room  and  was  roasting  a  quail  at  a 
fire  which  I  had  kindled  on  the  hearth.  The 
smoke  escaped  out  of  the  ruined  chimney,  the 
light  illuminated  the  room  with  a  kindly  glow,, 
and  as  I  ate  my  simple  meal  of  plain  bird  and 
drank  the  remains  of  a  bottle  of  red  wine  which 
had  served  me  all  the  afternoon  in  place  of  the 
water,  which  the  region  did  not  afford,  I  experi 
enced  a  sense  of  comfort  which  better  fare  and 
accommodations  do  not  always  give.  Neverthe 
less,  there  was  something  lacking.  I  had  a  sense 


I38  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

of  comfort,  but  not  of  security.  I  detected 
myself  staring  more  frequently  at  the  open  door 
way  and  blank  window  than  I  could  find  warrant 
for  doing.  Outside  these  apertures  all  was 
black,  and  I  was  unable  to  repress  a  certain  feel 
ing  of  apprehension  as  my  fancy  pictured  the 
outer  world  and  filled  it  with  unfriendly  exist 
ences,  natural  and  supernatural — chief  among 
which,  in  their  respective  classes,  were  the  grizzly 
bear,  which  I  knew  was  occasionally  still  seen  in 
that  region,  and  the  ghost,  which  I  had  reason  to 
think  was  not.  Unfortunately,  our  feelings  do 
not  always  respect  the  law  of  probabilities,  and 
to  me  that  evening,  the  possible  and  the  impossi 
ble  were  equally  disquieting.  Everyone  who  has 
had  experience  in  the  matter  must  have  observed 
that  one  confronts  the  actual  and  imaginary  perils 
of  the  night  with  far  less  apprehension  in  the  open 
air  than  in  a  house  with  an  open  doorway.  I  felt 
this  now  as  I  lay  on  my  leafy  couch  in  a  corner 
of  the  room  next  to  the  chimney  and  permitted 
my  fire  to  die  out.  So  strong  became  my  sense  of 
the  presence  of  something  malign  and  menacing 
in  the  place,  that  I  found  myself  almost  unable 
to  withdraw  my  eyes  from  the  opening,  as  in  the 
deepening  darkness  it  became  more  and  more 
distinct.  And  when  the  last  little  flame  flickered 
and  went  out  I  grasped  the  shotgun  which  I  had 
laid  at  my  side  and  actually  turned  the  muzzle  in 
the  direction  of.  the  now  invisible  entrance,  my 


THE  SECRET  OF  MACARGER'S  GULCH.        139 

thumb  on  one  of  the  hammers,  ready  to  cock  the 
piece,  my  breath  suspended,  my  muscles  rigid  and 
tense.  A  moment  later  I  laid  down  the  weapon 
with  a  sense  of  shame  and  mortification.  What 
did  I  fear,  and  why — I  to  whom  the  night  had 
been 

"  a  more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man  " — 

I  in  whom  that  element  of  hereditary  superstition 
from  which  none  of  us  is  altogether  free  had  but 
given  to  solitude  and  darkness  and  silence  a  more 
alluring  charm  and  interest.  I  was  unable  to 
comprehend  my  folly,  and  losing  in  the  conjecture 
the  thing  conjectured  of,  I  fell  asleep.  And, 
sleeping,  I  dreamed. 

I  was  in  a  great  city  in  a  foreign  land — a  city 
whose  people  were  of  my  own  race,  with  minor 
differences  of  speech  and  costume ;  yet  precisely 
what  these  were  I  could  not  say;  my  sense  of 
them  was  indistinct.  The  city  was  dominated  by 
a  great  castle  upon  an  overlooking  height  whose 
name  I  knew,  but  could  not  speak.  I  walked 
through  many  streets,  some  broad  and  straight 
with  high  modern  buildings,  some  narrow,  gloomy, 
and  tortuous,  between  the  gables  of  quaint  old 
houses  whose  overhanging  stories,  elaborately 
ornamented  with  carvings  in  wood  and  stone, 
almost  met  above  my  head.  I  sought  someone 
whom  I  had  never  seen,  yet  knew  that  I  should 
recognize  when  found.  My  quest  was  not  aimless 


140  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

and  fortuitous;  it  had  a  definite  method.  I 
turned  from  one  street  into  another  without 
hesitation  and  threaded  a  maze  of  intricate  pas 
sages,  devoid  of  the  fear  of  losing  my  way. 

Presently  I  stopped  before  a  low  door  in  a  plain 
stone  house  which  might  have  been  the  dwelling 
of  an  artisan  of  the  better  sort,  and  without 
announcing  myself,  entered.  The  room,  rather 
sparely  furnished,  and  lighted  by  a  single  window 
with  small  diamond-shaped  panes,  had  but  two 
occupants :  a  man  and  a  woman.  They  took  no 
notice  of  my  intrusion,  a  circumstance  which,  in 
the  manner  of  dreams,  appeared  entirely  natural. 
They  were  not  conversing;  they  sat  apart,  unoc 
cupied  and  sullen. 

The  woman  was  young  and  rather  stout,  with 
fine  large  eyes  and  a  certain  grave  beauty;  my 
memory  of  her  expression  is  exceedingly  vivid, 
but  in  dreams  one  does  not  observe  the  details  of 
faces.  About  her  shoulders  was  a  plaid  shawl. 
The  man  was  older,  dark,  with  an  evil  face  made 
more  forbidding  by  a  long  scar  extending  from 
near  the  left  temple  diagonally  downward  into 
the  black  mustache;  though  in  my  dreams  it 
seemed  rather  to  haunt  the  face  as  a  thing  apart 
— I  can  express  it  no  otherwise — than  to  belong  to 
it.  The  moment  that  I  found  the  man  and  woman 
I  knew  them  to  be  husband  and  wife.  What 
followed,  I  remember  indistinctly;  it  was  con 
fused  and  inconsistent-^-made  so,  I  think,  by 


THE  SECRET  OF  MACARGER'S  GULCH.       *4« 

gleams  of  consciousness.  It  was  as  if  two  pic 
tures,  the  scene  of  my  dream,  and  my  actual 
surroundings,  had  been  blended,  one  overlying 
the  other,  until  the  former,  gradually  fading,  dis 
appeared,  and  I  was  broad  awake  in  the  deserted 
cabin,  entirely  and  tranquilly  conscious  of  my 
situation. 

My  foolish  fear  was  gone  and,  opening  my  eyes, 
I  saw  that  my  fire,  not  altogether  burned  out, 
had  revived  by  the  falling  of  a  stick  and  was  again 
lighting  the  room.  I  had  probably  slept  but  a 
few  minutes,  but  my  commonplace  dream  had 
somehow  so  strongly  impressed  me,  that  I  was  no 
longer  drowsy,  but  after  a  little  while  rose,  pushed 
the  embers  of  my  fire  together,  and  lighting  my 
pipe,  proceeded  in  a  rather  ludicrously  methodical 
way  to  meditate  upon  my  vision.  It  would  have 
puzzled  me  then  to  say  in  what  respect  it  was 
worth  attention.  In  the  first  moment  of  serious 
thought  that  I  gave  to  the  matter,  I  recognized 
the  city  of  my  dream  as  Edinburgh,  where  I  had 
never  been ;  so  if  the  dream  was  a  memory,  it 
was  a  memory  of  pictures  and  description.  The 
recognition  somehow  deeply  impressed  me;  it 
was  as  if  something  in  my  mind  insisted  rebel- 
liously  against  will  and  reason  on  the  importance 
of  all  this.  And  that  faculty,  whatever  it  was, 
asserted  also  a  control  of  my  speech.  "Surely," 
I  said  aloud,  quite  involuntarily,  "the  MacGreg- 
ors  must  have  come  here  from  Edinburgh." 


I42  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

At  the  moment,  neither  the  substance  of  this 
remark  nor  the  fact  of  my  making  it,  surprised 
me  in  the  least ;  it  seemed  entirely  natural  that  I 
should  know  the  name  of  my  dreamfolk  and 
something  of  their  history.  But  the  absurdity  of 
it  all  soon  dawned  upon  me :  I  laughed  audibly, 
knocked  the  ashes  from  my  pipe,  and  again 
stretched  myself  upon  my  bed  of  boughs  and 
grass,  where  I  lay  staring  absently  into  my  failing 
fire,  with  no  further  thought  of  either  my  dream 
or  my  surroundings.  Suddenly  the  single  remain 
ing  flame  crouched  for  a  moment,  then,  springing 
upward,  lifted  itself  clear  of  its  embers  and 
expired  in  air.  The  darkness  seemed  absolute. 

At  that  instant — almost,  it  seemed,  before  the 
gleam  of  the  blaze  had  faded  from  my  eyes — 
there  was  a  dull,  dead  sound,  as  of  some  heavy 
body  falling  upon  the  floor,  which  shook  beneath 
me  as  I  lay.  I  sprang  to  a  sitting  posture  and 
groped  at  my  side  for  my  gun ;  my  notion  was 
that  some  wild  beast  had  leaped  in  through  the 
open  window.  While  the  flimsy  structure  was 
still  shaking  from  the  impact,  I  heard  the  sound 
of  blows,  the  scuffling  of  feet  upon  the  floor,  and 
then — it  seemed  to  come  from  almost  within 
reach  of  my  hand,  the  sharp  shrieking  of  a  woman 
in  mortal  agony.  So  horrible  a  cry  I  had  never 
heard  nor  conceived ;  it  utterly  unnerved  me ;  I 
was  conscious  for  a  moment  of  nothing  but  my 
own  terror !  Fortunately  my  hand  now  found  the 


THE  SECRET  OF  MACARGER'S  GULCH.        143 

weapon  of  which  it  was  in  search,  and  the  familiar 
touch  somewhat  restored  me.  I  leaped  to  my 
feet,  straining  my  eyes  to  pierce  the  darkness. 
The  violent  sounds  had  ceased,  but  more  terrible 
than  these,  I  heard,  at  what  seemed  long  intervals, 
the  faint  intermittent  gasping  of  some  living 
thing! 

As  my  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  dim  light 
of  the  coals  in  the  fireplace,  I  saw  first  the  shapes 
of  the  door  and  window,  looking  blacker  than  the 
black  of  the  walls.  Next,  the  distinction  between 
wall  and  floor  became  discernible,  and  at  last  I 
was  sensible  to  the  form  and  full  expanse  of  the 
latter  from  end  to  end  and  side  to  side.  Nothing 
was  visible  and  the  silence  was  unbroken. 

With  a  hand  that  shook  a  little,  the  other  still 
grasping  my  gun,  I  restored  my  fire,  and  made 
a  critical  examination  of  the  place.  There  was 
nowhere  any  sign  that  the  cabin  had  been  en 
tered.  My  own  tracks  were  visible  in  the  dust 
covering  the  floor,  but  there  were  no  others.  I 
relit  my  pipe,  provided  fresh  fuel  by  ripping  a 
thin  board  or  two  from  the  inside  of  the  house — 
I  did  not  care  to  go  into  the  darkness  out  of  doors 
— and  passed  the  rest  of  the  night  smoking  and 
thinking,  and  feeding  my  fire;  not  for  a  hundred 
added  years  of  life  would  I  have  permitted  that 
little  flame  to  expire  again. 

Some  years  afterward,  I  met  in  Sacramento  a 


144  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

man  named  Morgan,  to  whom  I  had  a  note  of 
introduction  from  a  friend  in  San  Francisco. 
Dining  with  him  one  evening  at  his  home,  I 
observed  various  "trophies"  upon  the  wall,  indi 
cating  that  he  was  fond  of  shooting.  It  turned 
out  that  he  was,  and  in  relating  some  of  his  feats, 
he  mentioned  having  been  in  the  region  of  my 
own  adventure. 

"Mr.  Morgan,"  I  asked  abruptly,  "do  you 
know  a  place  up  there  called  Macarger's  Gulch?" 

"I  have  good  reason  to,"  he  replied;  "it  was 
I  who  gave  to  the  newspapers,  last  year,  the 
accounts  of  the  finding  of  the  skeleton  there." 

I  had  not  heard  of  it ;  the  accounts  had  been 
published,  it  appeared,  while  I  was  absent  in  the 
East. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Morgan,  "the  name  of  the 
gulch  is  a  corruption ;  it  should  have  been  called 
'MacGregor's.'  My  dear,"  he  added,  speaking  to 
his  wife,  "Mr.  Elderson  has  upset  his  wine." 

That  was  hardly  accurate — I  had  simply 
dropped  it,  glass  and  all. 

"There  was  an  old  shanty  once  in  the  gulch," 
Morgan  resumed  when  the  ruin  wrought  by  my 
awkwardness  had  been  repaired,  "but  just  previ 
ously  to  my  visit  it  had  been  blown  down,  or 
rather  blown  away,  for  its  debris  was  scattered  all 
about,  the  very  floor  being  parted,  plank  from 
plank.  Between  two  of  the  sleepers  still  in  posi 
tion,  I  and  my  companion  observed  the  remnant 


THE  SECRET  OF  MACARGER'S  GULCH.       145 

of  an  old  plaid  shawl,  and  examining  it,  found  that 
it  was  wrapped  about  the  shoulders  of  the  body 
of  a  woman,  of  which  but  little  remained  beside 
the  bones,  partly  covered  with  fragments  of 
clothing,  and  brown  dry  skin — but  we  will  spare 
Mrs.  Morgan,"  he  added,  with  a  smile.  The  lady 
had  indeed  exhibited  signs  of  disgust  rather  than 
sympathy. 

"It  is  necessary  to  say,  however,"  he  went  on, 
"that  the  skull  was  fractured  in  several  places,  as 
by  blows  of  some  blunt  instrument ;  and  that 
instrument  itself — a  pick  handle,  still  stained  with 
blood — lay  under  the  boards  near  by." 

Mr.  Morgan  turned  to  his  wife.  "Pardon  me, 
my  dear,"  he  said  with  affected  solemnity,  "for 
mentioning  these  disagreeable  particulars,  the 
natural  though  regrettable  incidents  of  a  conjugal 
quarrel  resulting,  doubtless,  from  the  wife's 
insubordination." 

"I  ought  to  be  able  to  overlook  it,"  the  lady 
replied  with  composure;  "you  have  so  many 
times  asked  me  to  in  those  very  words." 

I  thought  he  seemed  rather  glad  to  go  on  with 
his  story. 

"From  these  and  other  circumstances,"  he  said, 
"the  coroner's  jury  found  that  the  deceased,  Janet 
MacGregor,  came  to  her  death  from  blows  in 
flicted  by  some  person  to  the  jury  unknown ;  but 
it  was  added  that  the  evidence  pointed  strongly 
to  her  husband,  Thomas  MacGregor,  as  the  guilty 


146  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

person.  But  Thomas  MacGregor  has  never  been 
found  nor  heard  of.  It  was  learned  that  the 
couple  came  from  Edinburgh,  but  not — my  dear, 
do  you  not  observe  that  Mr.  Elderson's  bone 
plate  has  water  in  it?" 

I  had  deposited  a  chicken  bone  in  my  finger 
bowl. 

"In  a  little  cupboard  I  found  a  photograph 
of  MacGregor,  but  it  did  not  lead  to  his  capture." 

"Will  you  let  me  see  it?"  I  said. 

The  picture  showed  a  dark  man  with  an  evil 
face  made  more  forbidding  by  a  long  scar  extend 
ing  from  near  the  temple  diagonally  downward 
into  the  black  mustache. 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Elderson,"  said  my  affable 
host,  "may  I  know  why  you  asked  about 
'Macarger's  Gulch'?" 

"I  lost  a  mule  near  there  once,"  I  replied,  "and 
the  mischance  has — has  quite — upset  me." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Morgan,  with  the  mechan 
ical  intonation  of  an  interpreter  translating,  "the 
loss  of  Mr.  Elderson's  mule  has  peppered  his 
coffee." 


THE  MAJOR'S  TALE. 

IN  the  days  of  the  Civil  War  practical  joking 
had  not,  I  think,  fallen  into  that  disrepute  which 
characterizes  it  now.  That,  doubtless,  was  owing 
to  our  extreme  youth — men  were  much  younger 
than  they  are  now,  and  your  young  man  has  a 
boisterous  spirit,  running  easily  to  horse  play. 
You  cannot  think  how  young  the  men  were  in 
the  early  sixties !  Why,  the  average  age  of  the 
entire  Federal  Army  was  not  more  than  twenty- 
five  ;  I  doubt  if  it  was  more  than  twenty-three, 
but  not  having  the  statistics  on  that  point  (if 
there  are  any)  I  want  to  be  moderate :  we  will  say 
twenty-five.  It  is  true  a  man  of  twenty-five  was 
in  that  heroic  time  a  good  deal  more  of  a  man 
than  one  of  that  age  is  now ;  you  would  see  that 
by  looking  at  him.  His  face  had  nothing  of  that 
unripeness  so  conspicuous  in  his  successor.  I 
never  see  a  young  fellow  now  without  observing 
how  disagreeably  young  he  is;  but  during  the 
war  we  did  not  think  of  a  man's  age  at  all  unless 
he  happened  to  be  pretty  well  along  in  life.  In 
that  case  one  could  not  help  it,  for  the  unloveli- 
ness  of  age  assailed  the  human  countenance  then 
much  earlier  than  now ;  the  result,  I  suppose,  of 

«47 


148  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

hard  service — perhaps,  to  some  extent,  of  hard 
drink,  for,  bless  my  soul !  we  did  shed  the  blood 
of  the  grape  and  the  grain  abundantly  during  the 
war.  I  remember  thinking  General  Grant,  who 
could  not  have  been  above  forty-five,  a  pretty 
well  preserved  old  chap,  considering  his  habits. 
As  to  men  of  middle  age — say  from  fifty  to  sixty 
— why,  they  all  looked  fit  to  personate  the  Last 
of  the  Hittites,  or  the  Madagascarene  Methuselah, 
in  a  museum.  Depend  upon  it,  my  friends,  men 
of  that  time  were  greatly  younger  than  men  are 
to-day,  but  looked  much  older.  The  change  is 
quite  remarkable. 

I  said  that  practical  joking  had  not  then  gone 
out  of  fashion.  It  had  not,  at  least,  in  the 
army;  though  possibly  in  the  more  serious  life  of 
the  civilian  it  had  no  place  except  in  the  form  of 
tarring  and  feathering  an  occasional  obnoxious 
"copperhead."  You  all  know,  I  suppose,  what  a 
"copperhead"  was,  so  I  will  go  directly  at  my 
story  without  introductory  remark,  as  is  my  way. 

It  was  a  few  days  before  the  battle  of  Nash 
ville.  The  enemy  had  driven  us  up  out  of  north 
ern  Georgia  and  Alabama.  At  Nashville  we  had 
turned  at  bay  and  fortified,  while  old  Pap 
Thomas,  our  commander,  hurried  down  reinforce 
ments  and  supplies  from  Louisville.  Meantime 
Hood,  the  Confederate  commander,  had  partly 
invested  us  and  lay  close  enough  to  have  tossed 
shells  into  the  heart  of  the  town.  As  a  rule  he 


THE  MAJOR'S  TALE.  149 

abstained — he  was  afraid  of  killing  the  families  of 
his  own  soldiers,  I  suppose,  a  great  many  of 
whom  had  lived  there.  I  sometimes  wondered 
what  were  the  feelings  of  those  fellows,  gazing 
over  our  heads  at  their  own  dwellings,  where  their 
wives  and  children  or  their  aged  parents  were, 
perhaps,  suffering  for  the  necessaries  of  life,  and 
certainly  (so  their  reasoning  would  run)  cowering 
under  the  tyranny  and  power  of  the  barbarous 
Yankees. 

To  begin,  then,  at  the  beginning,  I  was  serving 
at  that  time  on  the  staff  of  a  division  commander 
whose  name  I  shall  not  disclose,  for  I  am  relating 
facts,  and  the  person  upon  whom  they  bear  hard 
est  may  have  surviving  relatives  who  would  not 
care  to  have  him  traced.  Our  headquarters  were 
in  a  large  dwelling  which  stood  just  behind  our 
line  of  works.  It  had  been  hastily  abandoned  by 
the  civilian  occupants,  who  had  left  everything 
pretty  much  as  it  was — had  no  place  to  store  it, 
probably,  and  trusted  that  Heaven  would  pre 
serve  it  from  Federal  cupidity  and  Confederate 
shells.  With  regard  to  the  latter  we  were  as 
solicitous  as  they. 

Rummaging  about  in  some  of  the  chambers 
and  closets  one  evening,  some  of  us  found  an 
abundant  supply  of  lady  gear — gowns,  shawls, 
bonnets,  hats,  petticoats,  and  the  Lord  knows 
what ;  I  could  not  at  that  time  have  named  the 
half  of  it.  The  sight  of  all  this  pretty  plunder 


15°  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

inspired  one  of  us  with  what  he  was  pleased  to 
call  an  "idea/*  which,  when  submitted  to  the  other 
scamps  and  scapegraces  of  the  staff,  met  with 
instant  and  enthusiastic  approval.  We  pro 
ceeded  at  once  to  act  upon  it  for  the  undoing  of 
one  of  our  companions. 

Our  selected  victim  was  an  aid,  Lieutenant 
Haberton,  so  to  call  him.  He  was  a  good  soldier 
— as  gallant  a  chap  as  ever  wore  spurs ;  but  he  had 
an  intolerable  weakness :  he  was  a  lady-killer,  and 
like  most  of  his  class,  even  in  those  days,  anxious 
that  all  should  know  it.  He  never  tired  of  relat 
ing  his  amatory  exploits,  and  I  need  not  say  how 
dismal  that  kind  of  narrative  is  to  all  but  the 
narrator.  It  would  be  dismal  even  if  sprightly 
and  vivacious,  for  all  men  are  rivals  in  woman's 
favor,  and  to  relate  your  successes  to  another 
man  is  to  rouse  in  him  a  dumb  resentment,  tem 
pered  by  disbelief.  You  will  not  convince  him 
that  you  tell  the  tale  for  his  entertainment ;  he 
will  hear  nothing  in  it  but  an  expression  of  your 
own  vanity.  Moreover,  as  most  men,  whether 
rakes  or  not,  are  willing  to  be  thought  so,  he  is 
very  likely  to  resent  a  stupid  and  unjust  inference 
which  he  suspects  you  to  have  drawn  from  his 
reticence  in  the  matter  of  his  own  adventures — 
namely,  that  he  has  had  none.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  has  no  scruple  in  the  matter  and  his 
reticence  is  due  to  lack  of  opportunity  to  talk,  or 
of  nimbleness  in  taking  advantage  of  it,  why,  then 


THE  MAJOR'S  TALE.  IS1 

he  will  be  surly  because  you  "have  the  floor" 
when  he  wants  it  himself.  There  are,  in  short, 
no  circumstances  under  which  a  man,  even  from 
that  best  of  motives,  or  no  motive  at  all,  can  relate 
his  feats  of  love  without  distinctly  lowering  him 
self  in  the  esteem  of  his  male  auditor;  and  herein 
lies  a  just  punishment  for  such  as  kiss  and  tell. 
In  my  younger  days  I  was  myself  not  entirely 
out  of  favor  with  the  ladies,  and  have  a  memory 
stored  with  much  concerning  them  which  doubt 
less  I  might  put  into  acceptable  narrative  had  I 
not  undertaken  another  tale,  and  if  it  were  not 
my  practice  to  relate  one  thing  at  a  time,  going 
straight  away  to  the  end,  without  digression. 

Lieutenant  Haberton  was,  it  must  be  con 
fessed,  a  singularly  handsome  man  with  engaging 
manners.  He  was,  I  suppose,  judging  from  the 
imperfect  view  point  of  my  sex,  what  women  call 
"fascinating."  Now,  the  qualities  which  make  a 
man  attractive  to  ladies  entail  a  double  disadvan 
tage.  First,  they  are  of  a  sort  readily  discerned 
by  other  men,  and  by  none  more  readily  than  by 
those  who  lack  them.  Their  possessor,  being 
feared  by  all  these,  is  habitually  slandered  by 
them  in  self-defense.  To  all  the  ladies  in  whose 
welfare  they  deem  themselves  entitled  to  a  voice 
and  interest  they  hint  at  the  vices  and  general 
unworth  of  the  "ladies'  man"  in  no  uncertain 
terms,  and  to  their  wives  relate  without  shame 
the  most  monstrous  falsehoods  about  him.  Nor 


152  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE! 

are  they  restrained  by  the  consideration  that 
he  is  their  friend ;  the  qualities  which  have 
engaged  their  own  admiration  make  it  necessary 
to  warn  away  those  to  whom  the  allurement 
would  be  a  peril.  So  the  man  of  charming  per 
sonality,  while  loved  by  all  the  ladies  who  know 
him  well,  yet  not  too  well,  must  endure  with  such 
fortitude  as  he  may  the  consciousness  that  those 
others  who  "know  him  only  by  reputation"  con 
sider  him  a  shameless  reprobate,  a  vicious  and 
unworthy  man — a  type  and  example  of  moral 
depravity.  To  name  the  second  disadvantage 
entailed  by  his  charms:  he  commonly  is. 

In  order  to  get  forward  with  our  busy  story 
(and  in  my  judgment  a  story  once  begun  should 
not  suffer  impedition)  it  is  necessary  to  explain 
that  a  young  fellow  attached  to  our  headquarters 
as  an  orderly  was  notably  effeminate  in  feature 
and  figure.  He  was  not  more  than  seventeen  and 
had  a  perfectly  smooth  face  and  large  lustrous 
eyes,  which  must  have  been  the  envy  of  many  a 
beautiful  woman  in  those  days.  And  how  beau 
tiful  the  women  of  those  days  were!  and  how 
gracious!  Those  of  the  South  showed  in  their 
demeanor  toward  us  Yankees  something  of 
hauteur,  but,  for  my  part,  I  found  it  less  insup 
portable  than  the  studious  indifference  with  which 
one's  attentions  are  received  by  the  ladies  of  this 
new  generation,  whom  I  certainly  think  destitute 
of  sentiment  and  sensibility. 


THE  MAJOR'S  TALE.  I$3 

This  young  orderly,  whose  name  was  Arman, 
we  persuaded — by  what  arguments  I  am  not 
bound  to  say — to  clothe  himself  in  female  attire 
and  personate  a  lady.  When  we  had  him  arrayed 
to  our  satisfaction — and  a  charming  girl  he  looked 
— he  was  conducted  to  a  sofa  in  the  office  of  the 
adjutant  general.  That  officer  was  in  the  secret, 
as  indeed  were  all  excepting  Haberton  and  the 
general;  within  the  awful  dignity  hedging  the 
latter  lay  possibilities  of  disapproval  which  we 
were  unwilling  to  confront. 

When  all  was  ready  I  went  to  Haberton  and 
said  :  "Lieutenant,  there  is  a  young  woman  in  the 
adjutant  general's  office.  She  is  the  daughter  of 
the  insurgent  gentleman  who  owns  this  house, 
and  has,  I  think,  called  to  see  about  its  present 
occupancy.  We  none  of  us  know  just  how  to 
talk  to  her,  but  think  perhaps  you  would  say  about 
the  right  thing — at  least  you  will  say  things  in  the 
right  way.  Would  you  mind  coming  down?" 

The  lieutenant  would  not  mind;  he  made  a 
hasty  toilet  and  joined  me.  As  we  were  going 
along  a  passage  toward  the  Presence  we  encoun 
tered  a  formidable  obstacle — the  general. 

"I  say,  Broadwood,"  he  said,  addressing  me  in 
the  familiar  manner  which  meant  that  he  was  in 
excellent  humor,  "there's  a  lady  in  Lawson's 
office.  Looked  like  a  devilish  fine  girl — came  on 
some  errand  of  mercy  or  justice,  no  doubt. 
Have  the  goodness  to  conduct  her  to  my  quar- 


154  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BEt 

ters.  I  won't  saddle  you  youngsters  with  #//the 
business  of  this  division,"  he  added  facetiously. 

This  was  awkward ;  something  had  to  be  done. 

"General,"  I  said,  "I  did  not  think  the  lady's 
business  of  sufficient  importance  to  bother  you 
with  it.  She  is  one  of  the  Sanitary  Commission's 
nurses,  and  merely  wants  to  see  about  some  sup 
plies  for  the  smallpox  hospital  where  she  is  on 
duty.  I'll  send  her  in  at  once." 

"You  need  not  mind,"  said  the  general,  moving 
on;  "I  dare  say  Lawson  will  attend  to  the 
matter." 

Ah,  the  gallant  general !  how  little  I  thought, 
as  I  looked  after  his  retreating  figure  and  laughed 
at  the  success  of  my  ruse,  that  within  the  week 
he  would  be  "dead  on  the  field  of  honor!"  Nor 
was  he  the  only  one  of  our  little  military  house 
hold  above  whom  gloomed  the  shadow  of  the 
death  angel  and  who  might  almost  have  heard 
"the  beating  of  his  wings."  On  that  bleak 
December  morning  a  few  days  later,  when  from 
an  hour  before  dawn  until  ten  o'clock  we  sat  on 
horseback  on  those  icy  hills,  waiting  for  General 
Smith  to  open  the  battle  miles  away  to  the  right, 
there  were  eight  of  us.  At  the  close  of  the  fight 
ing  there  were  three.  There  is  now  one.  Bear 
with  him  yet  a  little  while,  oh,  thrifty  generation  ; 
he  is  but  one  of  the  horrors  of  war  strayed  from 
his  era  into  yours.  He  is  only  the  harmless  skele 
ton  at  your  feast  and  peace  dance,  responding  to 


THE  MAJORS   TALE.  155 

your  laughter  and  your  footing  it  featly,  with  rat 
tling  fingers  and  bobbing  skull — albeit  upon  suit 
able  occasion,  with  a  partner  of  his  choosing,  he 
might  do  his  little  dance  with  the  best  of  you. 

As  we  entered  the  adjutant  general's  office  we 
observed  that  the  entire  staff  was  there.  The 
adjutant  general  himself  was  exceedingly  busy  at 
his  desk.  The  commissary  of  subsistence  played 
cards  with  the  surgeon  in  a  bay  window.  The 
rest  were  in  various  parts  of  the  room,  reading  or 
conversing  in  low  tones.  On  a  sofa  in  a  half 
lighted  part  of  the  room,  at  some  distance  from 
any  of  the  groups,  sat  the  "lady,"  closely  veiled, 
her  eyes  modestly  fixed  upon  her  toes. 

"Madam,"  I  said,  advancing  with  Haberton, 
"this  officer  will  be  pleased  to  serve  you  if  it  is  in 
his  power.  I  trust  that  it  is." 

With  a  bow  I  retired  to  the  further  corner  of 
the  room  and  took  part  in  a  conversation  going 
on  there,  though  I  had  not  the  faintest  notion 
what  it  was  about,  and  my  remarks  had  no  rele 
vancy  to  anything  under  the  heavens.  A  close 
observer  would  have  noticed  that  we  were  all 
intently  watching  Haberton  and  only  "making 
believe"  to  do  anything  else. 

He  was  worth  watching,  too ;  the  fellow  was 
simply  an  edition  de  luxe  of  "  Turveydrop  on  De 
portment."  As  the  "lady"  slowly  unfolded  her 
tale  of  grievances  against  our  lawless  soldiery  and 
mentioned  certain  instances  of  wanton  disregard 


I5&  CAM1  SUCH  THINGS  BE* 

of  property  rights — among  them,  as  to  the  immi 
nent  peril  of  our  bursting  sides  we  partly  over 
heard,  the  looting  of  her  own  wardrobe — the  look 
of  sympathetic  agony  in  Haberton's  handsome 
face  was  the  very  flower  and  fruit  of  histrionic  art. 
His  deferential  and  assenting  nods  at  each  several 
statement  were  so  exquisitely  performed  that  one 
could  not  help  regretting  their  unsubstantial 
nature  and  the  impossibility  of  preserving  them 
under  glass,  for  instruction  and  delight  of  poster 
ity.  And  all  the  time  the  wretch  was  drawing 
his  chair  nearer  and  nearer.  Once  or  twice  he 
looked  about  to  see  if  we  were  observing,  but  we 
were  in  appearance  blankly  oblivious  to  all  but 
one  another  and  our  several  diversions.  The  low 
hum  of  our  conversation,  the  gentle  tap-tap  of  the 
cards  as  they  fell  in  play,  and  the  furious  scratch 
ing  of  the  adjutant  general's  pen  as  he  turned  off 
countless  pages  of  words  without  sense  were  the 
only  sounds  heard.  No — there  was  another;  at 
long  intervals  the  distant  boom  of  a  heavy  gun, 
followed  by  the  approaching  rush  of  the  shot. 
The  enemy  was  amusing  himself. 

On  these  occasions  the  lady  was  perhaps  not 
the  only  member  of  that  company  who  was 
startled,  but  she  was  startled  more  than  the 
others,  sometimes  rising  from  the  sofa  and 
standing  with  clasped  hands,  the  authentic  por 
trait  of  terror  and  irresolution.  It  was  no  more 
than  natural  that  Haberton  should  at  these  times 


THE  MAJOR'S  TALE.  157 

reseat  her  with  infinite  tenderness,  assuring  her  of 
her  safety  and  regretting  her  peril  in  the  same 
breath.  It  was  perhaps  right  that  he  should 
finally  possess  himself  of  her  gloved  hand  and  a 
seat  beside  her  on  the  sofa ;  but  it  certainly  was 
highly  improper  for  him  to  be  in  the  very  act  of 
possessing  himself  of  both  hands  when — boom, 
whiz,  BANG !  . 

We  all  sprang  to  our  feet.  A  shell  had  crashed 
into  the  house  and  exploded  in  the  room  above 
us.  Bushels  of  plaster  fell  among  us.  That 
modest  and  murmurous  young  lady  leaped  erect. 

"Jumping  Je-rusalem!"  she  cried! 

Haberton,  who  had  also  risen,  stood  as  one 
petrified — as  a  statue  of  himself  erected  on  the 
site  of  his  assassination.  He  neither  spoke,  nor 
moved,  nor  once  took  his  eyes  off  the  face  of 
Orderly  Arman,  who  was  now  flinging  his  girl 
gear  right  and  left,  exposing  his  charms  in  the 
most  shameless  way;  while  out  upon  the  night 
and  away  over  the  lighted  camps  into  the  black 
spaces  between  the  hostile  lines  rolled  the  billows 
of  our  inexhaustible  laughter!  Ah,  what  a  merry 
life  it  was  in  the  old  heroic  days  when  men  had 
not  forgotten  how  to  laugh ! 

Haberton  slowly  came  to  himself.  He  looked 
about  him  less  blankly,  then  by  degrees  fashioned 
his  visage  into  the  sickliest  grin  that  ever  libeled  all 
smiling.  He  shook  his  head  and  looked  knowing. 

"You  can't  fool  me  !  "  he  said. 


A   PSYCHOLOGICAL  SHIPWRECK. 

IN  the  summer  of  1874  I  was  in  Liverpool, 
whither  I  had  gone  on  business  for  the  mercantile 
house  of  Bronson  &  Jarrett,  New  York.  My 
name  is  William  Jarrett;  my  partner,  Zenas 
Bronson,  is  dead ;  the  firm  failed  last  year,  and, 
unable  to  endure  the  fall  from  affluence  to  pov 
erty,  he  committed  suicide. 

Having  finished  my  business,  and  feeling  the 
lassitude  and  exhaustion  incident  to  its  dispatch, 
it  occurred  to  me  that  a  protracted  sea  voyage 
would  be  both  agreeable  and  beneficial,  so  instead 
of  embarking  for  my  return  on  one  of  the  many 
fine  passenger  steamers  I  booked  for  New  York 
on  the  sailing  vessel  Morrow,  upon  which  I  had 
shipped  a  large  and  valuable  invoice  of  the  goods 
I  had  purchased.  The  Morrow  was  an  English 
ship,  with,  of  course,  but  limited  accommodation 
for  passengers,  of  whom  there  were  only  myself, 
a  young  woman,  and  her  servant,  who  was  a 
middle-aged  negress.  I  thought  it  singular  that 
a  traveling  English  girl  should  be  so  attended, 
but  she  afterward  explained  to  me  that  the 
woman  had  been  left  with  her  family  by  a  man 
and  his  wife  from  South  Carolina,  both  of  whom 


160  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

had  died  on  the  same  day  at  the  house  of  the 
young  lady's  father  in  Devonshire — a  circum 
stance  in  itself  sufficiently  uncommon  to  remain 
rather  distinctly  in  my  memory,  even  had  it  not 
afterward  transpired  in  conversation  with  the 
young  lady  that  the  name  of  the  man  was  Wil 
liam  Jarrett,  the  same  as  my  own.  I  knew  that  a 
branch  of  my  family  had  settled  in  South  Caro 
lina,  but  of  them  and  their  history  I  was  alto 
gether  ignorant. 

The  Morrow  sailed  from  the  mouth  of  the 
Mersey  on  the  i$th  of  June,  and  for  several  weeks 
we  had  fair  breezes  and  unclouded  skies.  The 
skipper,  an  admirable  seaman,  but  nothing  more, 
favored  us  with  very  little  of  his  society,  except 
at  his  table ;  and  the  young  woman,  Miss  Janette 
Harford,  and  I  became  very  well  acquainted ; 
we  were,  in  truth,  nearly  always  together,  and 
being  of  an  introspective  turn  of  mind  I  often 
endeavored  to  analyze  and  define  the  novel  feel 
ing  with  which  she  inspired  me — a  secret,  subtle, 
but  powerful  attraction  which  constantly  impelled 
me  to  seek  her;  but  the  attempt  was  hopeless. 
I  could  only  be  sure  that  at  least  it  was  not  love. 
Having  assured  myself  of  this,  and  being  reason 
ably  certain  that  she  was  quite  as  whole-hearted, 
I  ventured  one  evening  (I  remember  it  was  on  the 
3d  of  July)  as  we  sat  on  deck,  to  ask  her,  laugh 
ingly,  if  she  could  assist  me  to  resolve  my  psycho 
logical  doubt. 


A  PSYCHOLOGICAL  SHIPWRECK-.  161 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent,  with  averted  face, 
and  I  began  to  fear  I  had  been  extremely  rude 
and  indelicate;  then  she  fixed  her  eyes  gravely 
on  my  own.  In  an  instant  my  mind  was  dom 
inated  by  as  strange  a  fancy  as  ever  entered 
human  consciousness.  It  seemed  as  if  she  were 
looking  at  me,  not  with,  but  through,  those  eyes 
— from  an  immeasurable  distance  behind  them — 
and  that  where  she  sat  a  number  of  other  people, 
men,  women,  and  children,  upon  whose  faces  I 
caught  strangely  familiar  evanescent  expressions, 
clustered  about  her,  struggling  with  gentle  eager 
ness  to  look  at  me  through  the  same  orbs.  Ship, 
ocean,  sky — all  had  vanished.  I  was  conscious  of 
nothing  but  the  figures  in  this  extraordinary  and 
fantastic  scene.  Then  all  at  once  darkness  fell 
upon  me,  and  anon  from  out  of  it,  as  to  one  who 
grows  accustomed  by  degrees  to  a  dimmer  light, 
my  former  surroundings  of  deck  and  mast  and 
cordage  slowly  resolved  themselves.  Miss  Har- 
ford  had  closed  her  eyes,  and  was  leaning  back  in 
her  chair,  apparently  asleep,  the  book  she  had 
been  reading  open  in  her  lap.  Impelled  by  surely 
I  cannot  say  what  motive,  I  glanced  at  the  top  of 
the  page ;  it  was  a  copy  of  that  rare  and  curious 
work,  "Denneker's  Meditations,"  and  the  lady's 
index  finger  rested  on  this  passage : 

"To  sundry  it  is  given  to  be  drawn  away,  and 
to  be  apart  from  the  body  for  a  season ;  for,  as 
concerning  'rills  which  would  flow  across  each 


1 62  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE! 

other  the  weaker  is  borne  along  by  the  stronger, 
so  there  be  certain  of  kin  whose  paths  intersect 
ing,  their  souls  do  bear  company,  the  while  their 
bodies  go  fore-appointed  ways,  unknowing." 

Miss  Harford  arose,  shuddering;  the  sun  had 
sunk  below  the  horizon,  but  it  was  not  cold. 
There  was  not  a  breath  of  wind ;  there  were  no 
clouds  in  the  sky,  yet  not  a  star  was  visible. 
A  hurried  tramping  sounded  on  the  deck;  the 
captain,  summoned  from  below,  joined  the  first 
officer,  who  stood  looking  at  the  barometer. 
"Good  God !"  I  heard  him  exclaim. 

An  hour  later  the  form  of  Janette  Harford, 
invisible  in  the  darkness  and  spray,  was  torn 
from  my  grasp  by  the  cruel  vortex  of  the  sinking 
ship,  and  I  fainted  in  the  cordage  of  the  floating 
mast  to  which  I  had  lashed  myself. 

It  was  by  lamplight  that  I  awoke.  I  lay  in  a 
berth  amid  the  familiar  surroundings  of  the  state 
room  of  a  steamer.  On  a  couch  opposite  sat  a 
man,  half  undressed  for  bed,  reading  a  book.  I 
recognized  the  face  of  my  friend  Gordon  Doyle, 
whom  I  had  met  in  Liverpool  on  the  day  of  my 
embarkation,  when  he  was  himself  about  to  sail 
on  the  steamer  City  of  Prague,  on  which  he  had 
urged  me  to  accompany  him. 

After  some  moments  I  now  spoke  his  name. 
He  simply  said,  "Well,"  and  turned  a  leaf  in  his 
book,  without  removing  his  eyes  from  the  page. 


A  PSYCHOLOGICAL  SHIPWRECK.  163 

"Doyle,"  I  repeated,  "did  they  save  her  ?  " 

He  now  deigned  to  look  at  me  and  smiled  as  if 
amused.  He  evidently  thought  me  but  half 
awake. 

"Her?    Whom  do  you  mean?" 

"Janette  Harford." 

His  amusement  turned  to  amazement;  he 
stared  at  me  fixedly,  saying  nothing. 

"You  will  tell  me  after  a  while,"  I  continued ; 
"I  suppose  you  will  tell  me  after  a  while." 

A  moment  later  I  asked:  "What  ship  is  this?" 

Doyle  stared  again.  "The  steamer  City  of 
Prague,  bound  from  Liverpool  to  New  York, 
three  weeks  out  with  a  broken  shaft.  Principal 
passenger,  Mr.  Gordon  Doyle;  ditto  lunatic, 
Mr.  William  Jarrett.  These  two  distinguished 
travelers  embarked  together,  but  they  are  about 
to  part,  it  being  the  resolute  intention  of  the 
former  to  pitch  the  latter  overboard." 

I  sat  bolt  upright.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
I  have  been  three  weeks  on  this  steamer?" 

"Yes,  pretty  nearly;   this  is  the  3d  of  July." 

"Have  I  been  ill?" 

"Right  as  a  trivet  all  the  time,  and  punctual  at 
your  meals." 

"My  God!  Doyle,  there  is  some  mystery  here; 
do  have  the  goodness  to  be  serious.  Was  I  not 
rescued  from  the  wreck  of  the  ship  Morrow  ?  " 

Doyle  changed  color,  and  approaching  me,  laid 
his  fingers  on  my  wrist.  A  moment  later,  "What 


1 64  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

do  you  know  of  Janette  Harford?"  he  asked 
very  calmly. 

"First  tell  me  what  you  know  of  her?" 

Mr.  Doyle  gazed  at  me  for  some  moments  as 
if  to  ascertain  what  to  do,  then  seating  himself 
again  on  the  couch,  said : 

"Why  should  I  not?  I  am  engaged  to  marry 
Janette  Harford,  whom  I  met  a  year  ago  in 
London.  Her  family,  one  of  the  wealthiest  in 
Devonshire,  cut  up  rough  about  it,  and  we  eloped 
— are  eloping  rather,  for  on  the  day  that  you  and 
I  walked  to  the  landing  stage  to  go  aboard  this 
steamer  she  and  her  faithful  servant,  a  negress, 
passed  us,  driving  to  the  ship  Morrow.  She 
would  not  consent  to  go  in  the  same  vessel  with 
me,  and%it  had  been  deemed  best  that  she  take  a 
sailing  vessel  in  order  to  avoid  observation  and 
lessen  the  risk  of  detection.  I  am  now  alarmed 
lest  this  cursed  breaking  of  our  machinery  may 
detain  us  so  long  that  the  Morrow  will  get  to 
New  York  before  us,  and  the  poor  girl  will  not 
know  where  to  go." 

I  lay  still  in  my  berth — so  still  I  hardly 
breathed,  indeed.  But  the  subject  was  evidently 
not  displeasing  to  Doyle,  and  after  a  short  pause 
he  resumed : 

"By  the  way,  she  is  only  an  adopted  daughter 
of  the  Harfords.  Her  mother  was  killed  at  their 
place  by  being  thrown  from  a  horse  while  hunting, 
and  her  father,  mad  with  grief,  made  away  with 


A  PSYCHOLOGICAL  SHIPWRECK.  165 

himself  the  same  day.  No  one  ever  claimed  the 
child,  and  after  a  reasonable  time  they  adopted 
it.  Sorry  to  deprive  them,  really." 

"Doyle,  what  book  are  you  reading?" 

"Oh,  it's  called  'Denneker's  Meditations/ 
It's  a  rum  lot.  Janette  gave  it  to  me;  she  hap 
pened  to  have  two  copies.  Want  to  see  it?" 

He  tossed  me  the  volume,  which  opened  as  it 
fell.  On  one  of  the  exposed  pages  was  a  marked 
passage : 

"To  sundry  it  is  given  to  be  drawn  away,  and 
to  be  apart  from  the  body  for  a  season ;  for,  as 
concerning  rills  which  would  flow  across  each 
other  the  weaker  is  borne  along  by  the  stronger, 
so  there  be  certain  of  kin  whose  paths  intersect 
ing,  their  souls  do  bear  company,  the  while  their 
bodies  go  fore-appointed  ways,  unknowing."  . 

"She  had— she  has — a  singular  taste  in  read 
ing,"  I  managed  to  say,  mastering  my  agitation. 

"Yes.  And  now  perhaps  you  will  have  the 
kindness  to  explain  how  you  knew  her  name  and 
that  of  the  ship  she  sailed  in." 

"You  talked  of  her  in  your  sleep,"  I  said. 

A  week  later  we  were  towed  into  the  port  of 
New  York.  But  the  Morrow  was  never  heard 
from. 


ONE  KIND  OF  OFFICER. 
I. 

ONE  OF  THE  USES  OF  CIVILITY. 

"CAPTAIN  RANSOME,  it  is  not  permitted  to  you 
to  know  anything.  It  is  sufficient  that  you  obey 
my  order — which  permit  me  to  repeat.  If  you 
perceive  any  movement  of  troops  in  your  front 
you  are  to  open  fire  and  if  attacked  hold  this 
position  as  long  as  you  can.  Do  I  make  myself 
understood,  sir?" 

"Nothing  could  be  plainer.  Lieutenant  Price," 
— this  to  an  officer  of  his  own  battery,  who  had 
ridden  up  in  time  to  hear  the  order — "the  gen 
eral's  meaning  is  clear,  is  it  not?" 

"Perfectly." 

The  lieutenant  passed  on  to  his  post.  For  a 
moment  General  Cameron  and  the  commander  of 
the  battery  sat  in  their  saddles,  looking  at  each 
other  in  silence.  There  was  no  more  to  say; 
apparently  too  much  had  been  already  said. 
Then  the  superior  officer  nodded  coldly  and 
turned  his  horse  to  ride  away.  The  artillerist 
saluted  slowly,  gravely,  and  with  extreme  for- 

167 


168  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

mality.  One  acquainted  with  the  niceties  of 
military  etiquette  would  have  said  that  by  his 
manner  he  attested  a  sense  of  the  rebuke  that  he 
had  incurred.  It  is  one  of  the  important  uses  of 
civility  to  signify  resentment. 

When  the  general  had  joined  his  staff  and 
escort,  awaiting  him  at  a  little  distance,  the  whole 
cavalcade  moved  off  toward  the  right  of  the  guns 
and  vanished  in  the  fog.  Captain  Ransome  was 
alone,  silent,  motionless  as  an  equestrian  statue. 
The  gray  fog,  thickening  every  moment,  closed 
in  about  him  like  a  visible  doom. 


II. 

UNDER  WHAT  CIRCUMSTANCES  MEN  DO 
NOT  WISH  TO  BE  SHOT. 

THE  fighting  of  the  day  before  had  been 
desultory  and  indecisive.  At  the  points  of  col 
lision  the  smoke  of  battle  had  hung  in  blue  sheets 
among  the  branches  of  the  trees  till  beaten  into 
nothing  by  the  falling  rain.  In  the  softened  earth 
the  wheels  of  cannon  and  ammunition  wagons  cut 
deep,  ragged  furrows,  and  movements  of  infantry 
seemed  impeded  by  the  mud  that  clung  to  the 
soldiers'  feet  as,  with  soaken  garments  and  rifles 
imperfectly  protected  by  capes  of  overcoats,  they 
went  dragging  in  sinuous  lines  hither  and  thither 
through  dripping  forest  and  flooded  field. 
Mounted  officers,  their  heads  protruding  from 
rubber  ponchos  that  glittered  like  black  armor, 
picked  their  way,  singly  and  in  loose  groups, 
among  the  men,  coming  and  going  with  apparent 
aimlessness,  and  commanding  attention  from 
nobody  but  one  another.  Here  and  there  a  dead 
man,  his  clothing  defiled  with  earth,  his  face 
covered  with  a  blanket  or  showing  yellow  and 
claylike  in  the  rain,  added  his  dispiriting  influence 
to  that  of  the  other  dismal  features  of  the  scene 

•69 


170  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE! 

and  augmented  the  general  discomfort  with  a 
particular  dejection.  Very  repulsive  these 
wrecks  looked — not  at  all  heroic,  and  nobody 
was  accessible  to  the  infection  of  their  patriotic 
example.  Dead  upon  the  field  of  honor,  yes; 
but  the  field  of  honor  was  so  very  wet !  It  makes 
a  difference. 

The  general  engagement  that  all  expected  did 
not  occur,  none  of  the  small  advantages  accruing, 
now  to  this  side  and  now  to  that,  in  isolated  and 
accidental  collisions  being  followed  up.  Half 
hearted  attacks  provoked  a  sullen  resistance 
which  was  satisfied  with  mere  repulse.  Orders 
were  obeyed  with  mechanical  fidelity;  no  one 
did  any  more  than  his  duty. 

"The  army  is  cowardly  to-day,"  said  General 
Cameron,  the  commander  of  a  Federal  brigade, 
to  his  adjutant  general. 

"The  army  is  cold,"  replied  the  officer  ad 
dressed,  "and — yes,  it  doesn't  wish  to  be  like 
that." 

He  pointed  to  one  of  the  dead  bodies,  lying  in 
a  thin  pool  of  yellow  water,  its  face  and  clothing 
bespattered  with  mud  from  hoof  and  wheel. 

The  army's  weapons  seemed  to  share  its  mili 
tary  delinquency.  The  rattle  of  rifles  sounded 
flat  and  contemptible.  It  had  no  meaning  and 
scarcely  roused  to  attention  and  expectancy  the 
unengaged  parts  of  the  line  of  battle  and  the 
waiting  reserves.  Heard  at  a  little  distance,  the 


ONE  KIND  Of  OFFICER.  1*1* 

reports  of  cannon  were  feeble  in  volume  and 
timbre :  they  lacked  sting  and  resonance.  The 
guns  seemed  to  be  fired  with  light  charges, 
unshotted.  And  so  the  futile  day  wore  on  to  its 
dreary  close,  and  then  to  a  night  of  discomfort 
succeeded  a  day  of  apprehension. 

An  army  has  a  personality.  Beneath  the  indi 
vidual  thoughts  and  emotions  of  its  component 
parts  it  thinks  and  feels  as  a  unit.  And  in  this 
large  inclusive  sense  of  things  lies  a  wiser  wisdom 
than  the  mere  sum  of  all  it  knows.  On  that 
dismal  morning  this  great  brute  force,  groping  at 
the  bottom  of  a  white  ocean  of  fog  among  trees 
that  seemed  as  sea  weeds,  had  a  dumb  conscious 
ness  that  all  was  not  well ;  that  a  day's  maneuver 
ing  had  resulted  in  a  faulty  disposition  of  its 
parts,  a  blind  diffusion  of  its  strength.  The  men 
felt  insecure  and  talked  among  themselves  of 
such  tactical  errors  as  with  their  meager  military 
vocabulary  they  were  able  to  name.  Field  and 
line  officers  gathered  in  groups  and  spoke  more 
learnedly  of  what  they  apprehended  with  no 
greater  clearness.  Commanders  of  brigades  and 
divisions  looked  anxiously  to  their  connections 
on  the  right  and  on  the  left,  sent  staff  officers  on 
errands  of  inquiry  and  pushed  skirmish  lines 
silently  and  cautiously  forward  into  the  dubious 
region  between  the  known  and  the  unknown. 
At  some  points  on  the  line  the  troops,  apparently 
of  their  own  volition,  constructed  such  defenses 


1 72  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

as  they  could  without  the  absent  spade  and  the 
noisy  ax.  One  of  these  points  was  held  by  Cap 
tain  Ransome's  battery  of  six  guns.  Provided 
always  with  intrenching  tools,  his  men  had 
labored  with  diligence  during  the  night,  and  now 
his  guns  thrust  their  black  muzzles  through  the 
embrasures  of  a  really  formidable  earthwork.  It 
crowned  a  slight  acclivity  devoid  of  undergrowth 
and  affording  an  unobstructed  fire  that  would 
sweep  the  ground  for  an  unknown  distance  in 
front.  The  position  could  hardly  have  been 
better  chosen.  It  had  this  peculiarity,  which 
Captain  Ransome,  who  was  greatly  addicted  to 
the  use  of  the  compass,  had  not  failed  to  observe : 
it  faced  northward,  whereas  he  knew  that  the 
general  line  of  the  army  must  face  eastward.  In 
fact,  that  part  of  the  line  was  "refused" — that  is 
to  say,  bent  backward,  away  from  the  enemy. 
This  implied  that  Captain  Ransome's  battery  was 
somewhere  near  the  left  flank  of  the  army ;  for  an 
army  in  line  of  battle  retires  its  flanks  if  the  nature 
of  the  ground  will  permit,  they  being  its  vulner 
able  points.  Actually,  Captain  Ransome  ap 
peared  to  hold  the  extreme  left  of  the  line,  no 
troops  being  visible  in  that  direction  beyond  his 
own.  Immediately  in  rear  of  his  guns  occurred 
that  conversation  between  him  and  his  brigade 
commander,  the  concluding  and  more  picturesque 
part  of  which  is  reported  above. 


III. 

HOW  TO   PLAY   THE    CANNON    WITHOUT  NOTES. 

CAPTAIN  RANSOME  sat  motionless  and  silent 
on  horseback.  A  few  yards  away  his  men  were 
standing  at  their  guns.  Somewhere — everywhere 
within  a  few  miles — were  a  hundred  thousand  men, 
friends  and  enemies.  Yet  he  was  alone.  The 
mist  had  isolated  him  as  completely  as  if  he  had 
been  in  the  heart  of  a  desert.  His  world  was  a 
few  square  yards  of  wet  and  trampled  earth  about 
the  feet  of  his  horse.  His  comrades  in  that 
ghostly  domain  were  invisible  and  inaudible. 
These  were  conditions  favorable  to  thought,  and 
he  was  thinking.  Of  the  nature  of  his  thoughts 
his  clear-cut  handsome  features  yielded  no  attest 
ing  sign.  His  face  was  as  inscrutable  as  that  of 
the  sphinx.  Why  should  it  have  made  a  record 
which  there  was  none  to  observe?  At  the  sound 
of  a  footstep  he  merely  turned  his  eyes  in  the 
direction  whence  it  came;  one  of  his  sergeants, 
looking  a  giant  in  stature  in  the  false  perspective 
of  the  fog,  approached,  and  when  clearly  defined 
and  reduced  to  his  true  dimensions  by  propin 
quity,  saluted  and  stood  at  attention. 


174  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

"Well,  Morris,"  said  the  officer,  returning  his 
subordinate's  salute. 

"Lieutenant  Price  directed  me  to  tell  you,  sir, 
that  the  infantry  has  been  withdrawn.  We  have 
no  support." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"I  am  to  say  that  some  of  our  men  have  been 
out  over  the  works  a  hundred  yards  and  report 
that  our  front  is  not  picketed." 

"Yes." 

"They  were  so  far  forward  that  they  heard  the 
enemy." 

"Yes." 

"They  heard  the  rattle  of  the  wheels  of  artillery 
and  the  commands  of  officers." 

"Yes." 

"The  enemy  is  moving  toward  our  works." 

Captain  Ransome,  who  had  been  facing  to  the 
rear  of  his  line — toward  the  point  where  the 
brigade  commander  and  his  cavalcade  had  been 
swallowed  up  by  the  fog — reined  his  horse  about 
and  faced  the  other  way.  Then  he  sat  motionless 
as  before. 

"Who  are  the  men  who  made  that  statement?" 
he  inquired,  without  looking  at  the  sergeant;  his 
eyes  were  directed  straight  into  the  fog  over  the 
head  of  his  horse. 

"Corporal  Hassman  and  Gunner  Manning." 

Captain  Ransome  was  a  moment  silent.  A 
slight  pallor  came  into  his  face,  a  slight  compres- 


ONE  KIND  OF  OFFICER.  175 

sion  affected  the  lines  of  his  lips,  but  it  would 
have  required  a  closer  observer  than  Sergeant 
Morris  to  note  the  change.  There  was  none  in 
the  voice : 

"Sergeant,  present  my  compliments  to  Lieu 
tenant  Price  and  direct  him  to  open  fire  with  all 
the  guns.  Grape." 

The  sergeant  saluted  and  vanished  in  the  fog. 


IV. 

TO  INTRODUCE  GENERAL  MASTERSON. 

SEARCHING  for  his  division  commander,  Gen 
eral  Cameron  and  his  escort  had  followed  the  line 
of  battle  for  nearly  a  mile  to  the  right  of  Ran- 
some's  battery,  and  there  learned  that  the  division 
commander  had  gone  in  search  of  the  corps  com 
mander.  It  seemed  that  everybody  was  looking 
for  his  immediate  superior — an  ominous  circum 
stance.  It  meant  that  nobody  was  quite  at  ease. 
So  General  Cameron  rode  on  for  another  half 
mile,  where  by  good  luck  he  met  General  Master- 
son,  the  division  commander,  returning. 

"Ah,  Cameron,"  said  the  higher  officer,  reining 
up,  and  throwing  his  right  leg  across  the  pommel 
of  his  saddle  in  a  most  unmilitary  way — "any 
thing  up?  Found  a  good  position  for  your 
battery,  I  hope — if  one  place  is  better  than 
another  in  a  fog." 

"Yes,  general,"  said  the  other,  with  the  greater 
dignity  appropriate  to  his  less  exalted  rank,  "my 
battery  is  very  well  placed.  I  wish  I  could  say 
that  it  is  as  well  commanded." 

"Eh,  what's  that?  Ransome?  I  think  him  a 
176 


ONE  KIND   OF  OFFICER.  177 

fine  fellow.  In  the  army  we  should  be  proud  of 
him." 

It  was  customary  for  officers  of  the  regular 
army  to  speak  of  it  as  "the  army."  As  the 
greatest  cities  are  most  provincial,  so  the  self- 
complacency  of  aristocracies  is  most  frankly 
plebeian. 

"He  is  too  fond  of  his  opinion.  By  the  way, 
in  order  to  occupy  the  hill  that  he  holds  I  had  to 
extend  my  line  dangerously.  The  hill  is  on  my 
left-— that  is  to  say  the  left  flank  of  the  army." 

"Oh,  no,  Hart's  brigade  is  beyond.  It  was 
ordered  up  from  Drytown  during  the  night  and 
directed  to  hook  on  to  you.  Better  go  and " 

The  sentence  was  unfinished :  a  lively  cannon 
ade  had  broken  out  on  the  left,  and  both  officers, 
followed  by  their  retinues  of  aids  and  orderlies 
making  a  great  jingle  and  clank,  rode  rapidly 
toward  the  spot.  But  they  were  soon  impeded, 
for  they  were  compelled  by  the  fog  to  keep 
within  sight  of  the  line  of  battle,  behind  which 
were  swarms  of  men,  all  in  motion  across  their 
way.  Everywhere  the  line  was  assuming  a 
sharper  and  harder  definition,  as  the  men  sprang 
to  arms  and  the  officers,  with  drawn  swords, 
4 'dressed"  the  ranks.  Color  bearers  unfurled  the 
flags,  buglers  blew  the  "assembly,"  hospital  at 
tendants  appeared  with  stretchers.  Field  officers 
dismounted  and  sent  their  horses  to  the  rear  in 
care  of  negro  servants.  Back  in  the  ghostly 


178  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

spaces  of  the  forest  could  be  heard  the  rustle  and 
murmur  of  the  reserves,  pulling  themselves 
together. 

Nor  was  all  this  preparation  vain,  for  scarcely 
five  minutes  had  passed  since  Captain  Ransome's 
guns  had  broken  the  truce  of  doubt  before  the 
whole  region  was  aroar :  the  enemy  had  attacked 
with  inconceivable  fury  everywhere. 


V. 

HOW  SOUNDS  CAN  FIGHT  SHADOWS. 

CAPTAIN  RANSOME  walked  up  and  down 
behind  his  guns,  which  were  firing  rapidly  but 
with  steadiness.  The  gunners  worked  alertly, 
but  without  haste  or  apparent  excitement.  There 
was  really  no  reason  for  excitement;  it  is  not 
much  to  point  a  cannon  into  a  fog  and  fire  it. 
Anybody  can  do  as  much  as  that. 

The  men  smiled  at  their  noisy  work,  performing 
it  with  a  lessening  alacrity.  They  cast  curious 
regards  upon  their  captain,  who  had  now  mounted 
the  banquette  of  the  fortification  and  was  looking 
across  the  parapet  as  if  observing  the  effect  of  his 
fire.  But  the  only  visible  effect  was  the  substitu 
tion  of  wide,  low-lying  sheets  of  smoke  for  their 
bulk  of  fog.  Suddenly  out  of  the  obscurity  burst 
a  great  sound  of  cheering,  which  filled  the  inter 
vals  between  the  reports  of  the  guns  with  start 
ling  distinctness!  To  the  few  with  leisure  and 
opportunity  to  observe,  the  sound  was  inexpressi 
bly  strange — so  loud,  so  near,  so  menacing,  yet 
nothing  seen!  The  men  who  had  smiled  at  their 
work  smiled  no  more,  but  performed  it  with  a 

179 


l8o  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

serious  and  feverish  activity.  From  his  station  at 
the  parapet  Captain  Ransome  now  saw  a  great 
multitude  of  dim  gray  figures  taking  shape  in  the 
mist  below  him  and  swarming  up  the  slope.  But 
the  work  of  the  guns  was  now  fast  and  furious. 
They  swept  the  populous  declivity  with  gusts  of 
grape  and  canister,  the  whirring  of  which  could 
be  heard  through  the  thunder  of  the  explosions. 
In  this  awful  tempest  of  iron  the  assailants 
struggled  forward  foot  by  foot  across  their  dead, 
firing  into  the  embrasures,  reloading,  firing  again, 
and  at  last  falling  in  their  turn,  a  little  in  advance 
of  those  who  had  fallen  before.  Soon  the  smoke 
was  dense  enough  to  cover  all.  It  settled  down 
upon  the  attack  and  drifting  back,  involved  the 
defense.  The  gunners  could  hardly  see  to  serve 
their  pieces,  and  when  occasional  figures  of  the 
enemy  appeared  upon  the  parapet — having  had 
the  good  luck  to  get  near  enough  to  it,  between 
two  embrasures,  to  be  protected  from  the  guns — 
they  looked  so  unsubstantial  that  it  seemed 
hardly  worth  while  to  go  to  work  upon  them  with 
saber  and  revolver  and  tumble  them  back  into 
the  ditch. 

As  the  commander  of  a  battery  in  action  can 
find  something  better  to  do  than  cracking  individ 
ual  skulls,  Captain  Ransome  had  retired  from  the 
parapet  to  his  proper  post  in  rear  of  his  guns, 
where  he  stood  with  folded  arms,  his  bugler 
beside  him.  Here,  during  the  hottest  of  the 


ONE  KIND  OF  OFFICER.  l8l 

fight,  he  was  approached  by  Lieutenant  Price, 
who  had  just  sabered  a  daring  assailant  inside  the 
work.  A  spirited  colloquy  ensued  between  the 
two  officers — spirited,  at  least,  on  the  part  of  the 
lieutenant,  who  gesticulated  with  energy  and 
shouted  again  and  again  into  his  commander's  ear 
in  the  attempt  to  make  himself  heard  above  the 
infernal  din  of  the  guns.  His  gestures,  if  coolly 
noted  by  an  actor,  would  have  been  pronounced 
to  be  those  of  protestation :  one  would  have  said 
that  he  was  opposed  to  the  proceedings. 

Captain  Ransome  listened  without  a  change  of 
countenance  or  attitude,  and  when  the  other  man 
had  finished  his  harangue,  looked  him  coldly  in 
the  eyes  and  during  a  seasonable  abatement  of 
the  uproar  said : 

"Lieutenant  Price,  it  is  not  permitted  to  you  to 
know  anything.  It  is  sufficient  that  you  obey  my 
orders." 

The  lieutenant  went  to  his  post,  and  the  para 
pet  being  now  apparently  clear,  Captain  Ransome 
returned  to  it  to  have  a  look  over.  As  he 
mounted  the  banquette  a  man  sprang  upon  the 
crest,  waving  a  great  brilliant  flag.  The  captain 
drew  a  pistol  from  his  belt  and  shot  him  dead. 
The  body,  pitching  forward,  hung  over  the  inner 
edge  of  the  embankment,  the  arms  straight  down 
ward,  both  hands  still  grasping  the  flag.  The 
man's  few  followers  turned  and  fled  down  the 
slope.  Looking  over  the  parapet,  the  captain 


182  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

saw  no  living  thing.     He  observed  also  that  no 
bullets  were  coming  into  the  work. 

He  made  a  sign  to  the  bugler,  who  sounded  the 
command  to  cease  firing.  At  all  other  points  the 
action  had  already  ended  for  the  time  being  with 
a  repulse  of  the  Confederate  attack;  with  the 
cessation  of  this  cannonade  the  silence  was 
absolute. 


VI. 

WHY,  BEING  AFFRONTED   BY  A,   IT  IS  NOT 
BEST  TO  AFFRONT  B. 

GENERAL  MASTERSON  rode  into  the  redoubt. 
The  men,  gathered  in  groups,  were  talking  loudly 
and  gesticulating.  They  pointed  at  the  dead, 
running  from  one  body  to  another.  They  neg 
lected  their  foul  and  heated  guns,  and  forgot  to 
resume  their  outer  clothing.  They  ran  to  the 
parapet  and  looked  over,  some  of  them  leaping 
down  into  the  ditch.  A  score  were  gathered 
about  a  flag  rigidly  held  by  a  dead  man. 

"Well,  my  men,"  said  the  general  cheerily, 
"you  have  had  a  pretty  fight  of  it." 

They  stared ;  nobody  replied ;  the  presence  of 
the  great  man  seemed  to  embarrass  and  alarm. 

Getting  no  response  to  his  pleasant  condescen 
sion,  the  easy-mannered  officer  whistled  a  bar  or 
two  of  a  popular  air,  and  riding  forward  to  the 
parapet,  looked  over  at  the  dead.  In  an  instant 
he  had  whirled  his  horse  about  and  was  spurring 
along  in  rear  of  the  guns,  his  eyes  everywhere  at 
once.  An  officer  sat  on  the  trail  of  one  of  the 
guns,  smoking  a  cigar.  As  the  general  dashed 
up  he  rose  and  tranquilly  saluted. 


1 84  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE* 

"Captain  Ransome !" — the  words  fell  sharp  and 
harsh,  like  the  clash  of  steel  blades — "You  have 
been  fighting  our  own  men — our  own  men,  sir; 
do  you  hear?  Hart's  brigade !" 

"General,  I  know  that." 

"You  know  it — you  know  that,  and  you  sit 
here  smoking?  Oh,  d — n  it,  Hamilton,  I'm 
losing  my  temper," — this  to  his  provost  marshal. 
"Sir — Captain  Ransome,  be  good  enough  to  say 
— to  say  why  you  fought  our  own  men." 

"That  I  am  unable  to  say.  In  my  orders  that 
information  was  withheld." 

Apparently  the  general  did  not  comprehend. 

"Who  was  the  aggressor  in  this  affair,  you  or 
General  Hart?"  he  asked. 

"I  was." 

"And  could  you  not  have  known — could  you 
not  see,  sir,  that  you  were  attacking  our  own 
men?" 

The  reply  was  astounding! 

"I  knew  it,  general.  It  appeared  to  be  none 
of  my  business." 

Then,  breaking  the  dead  silence  that  followed 
his  answer,  he  said : 

"I  must  refer  you  to  General  Cameron." 

"General  Cameron  is  dead,  sir — as  dead  as  he 
can  be — as  dead  as  any  man  in  this  army.  He 
lies  back  yonder  under  a  tree.  Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  he  had  anything  to  do  with  this  horrible 
business?" 


ONE  KIND  OF  OFFICER.  185 

Captain  Ransome  did  not  reply.  Observing 
the  altercation,  his  men  had  gathered  about  to 
watch  the  outcome.  They  were  greatly  excited. 
The  fog,  which  had  been  partly  dissipated  by  the 
firing,  had  again  closed  in  so  darkly  about  them 
that  they  drew  more  closely  together  till  the 
judge  on  horseback  and  the  accused,  standing 
calmly  before  him,  had  but  a  narrow  space  free 
from  intrusion.  It  was  the  most  informal  of 
courts-martial,  but  all  felt  that  the  formal  one  to 
follow  would  but  affirm  its  judgment.  It  had 
no  jurisdiction,  but  it  had  its  significance  of 
prophecy. 

"  Captain  Ransome,"  the  general  cried  impetu 
ously,  but  with  something  in  his  voice  that  was 
almost  entreaty,  "if  you  can  say  anything  to  put 
a  better  light  upon  your  extraordinary  conduct  I 
beg  you  will  do  so." 

Having  recovered  his  temper,  this  generous 
soldier  sought  for  something  to  justify  his  nat 
urally  sympathetic  attitude  toward  a  brave  man 
in  the  imminence  of  a  dishonorable  death. 

"Where  is  Lieutenant  Price?"  the  captain  said. 

That  officer  stood  forward,  his  dark  saturnine 
face  looking  somewhat  forbidding  under  a  bloody 
handkerchief  bound  about  his  brow.  He  under 
stood  the  summons  and  needed  no  invitation  to 
speak.  He  did  not  look  at  the  captain,  but 
addressed  the  general : 

"During  the  engagement  I  discovered  the  state 


1 86  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

of  affairs,  and  apprised  the  commander  of  the 
battery.  I  ventured  to  urge  that  the  firing  cease. 
I  was  insulted  and  ordered  to  my  post." 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  the  orders  under 
which  I  was  acting?"  asked  the  captain. 

"Of  any  orders  under  which  the  commander  of 
the  battery  was  acting,"  the  lieutenant  continued, 
still  addressing  the  general,  "I  know  nothing." 

Captain  Ransome  felt  his  world  sink  away  from 
his  feet.  In  those  words  he  heard  the  murmur  of 
the  centuries  breaking  upon  the  shore  of  eternity. 
He  heard  the  voice  of  doom;  it  said,  in  cold, 
mechanical,  and  measured  tones:  "Ready,  aim, 
fire!"  and  he  felt  the  bullets  tear  his  heart  to 
shreds.  He  heard  the  sound  of  the  earth  upon 
his  coffin,  and  (if  the  good  God  was  so  merciful) 
the  song  of  a  bird  above  his  forgotten  grave. 
Quietly  detaching  his  saber  from  its  supports,  he 
handed  it  up  to  the  provost  marshal. 


THE  APPLICANT. 

PUSHING  his  adventurous  shins  through  the 
deep  snow  that  had  fallen  overnight,  and  encour 
aged  by  the  glee  of  his  little  sister,  following  in 
the  open  way  that  he  made,  a  sturdy  small  boy, 
the  son  of  Grayville's  most  distinguished  citizen, 
struck  his  foot  against  something  of  which  there 
was  no  visible  sign  on  the  surface  of  the  snow 
It  is  the  purpose  of  this  narrative  to  explain  how 
it  came  to  be  there. 

No  one  who  has  had  the  advantage  of  passing 
through  Grayville  by  day  can  have  failed  to 
observe  the  large  stone  building  crowning  the  low 
hill  to  the  north  of  the  railway  station — that  is  to 
say,  to  the  right  in  going  toward  Great  Mowbray. 
It  is  a  somewhat  dull-looking  edifice,  of  the  Early 
Comatose  order,  and  appears  to  have  been  de 
signed  by  an  architect  who  shrank  from  publicity, 
and  although  unable  to  conceal  his  work — even 
compelled,  in  this  instance,  to  set  it  on  an 
eminence  in  the  sight  of  men — did  what  he 
honestly  could  to  insure  it  against  a  second  look. 
So  far  as  concerns  its  outer  and  visible  aspect, 
the  Abersush  Home  for  Old  Men  is  unquestion 
ably  inhospitable  to  human  attention.  But  it  is 

187 


i88  CAN-  SUCH  THINGS 

a  building  of  great  magnitude,  and  cost  its  benev 
olent  founder  the  profit  of  many  a  cargo  of  the 
teas  and  silks  and  spices  that  his  ships  brought 
up  from  the  under-world  when  he  was  in  trade  in 
Boston ;  though  the  main  expense  was  its  endow 
ment.  Altogether,  this  reckless  person  had 
robbed  his  heirs-at-law  of  no  less  a  sum  than  half 
a  million  dollars,  and  flung  it  away  in  riotous 
giving.  Possibly  it  was  with  a  view  to  get  out  of 
sight  of  the  silent  big  witness  to  his  extravagance 
that  he  shortly  afterward  disposed  of  all  his 
Grayville  property  that  remained  to  him,  turned 
his  back  upon  the  scene  of  his  prodigality,  and 
went  off  across  the  sea  in  one  of  his  own  ships. 
But  the  gossips  who  got  their  inspiration  most 
directly  from  heaven  declared  that  he  went  in 
search  of  a  wife — a  theory  not  easily  reconciled 
with  that  of  the  village  humorist,  who  solemnly 
averred  that  the  bachelor  philanthropist  had 
departed  this  life  (left  Grayville,  to  wit)  because 
the  marriageable  maidens  had  made  it  too  hot  to 
hold  him.  However  this  may  have  been,  he  had 
not  returned,  and  although  at  long  intervals  there 
had  come  to  Grayville,  in  a  desultory  way,  vague 
rumors  of  his  wanderings  in  strange  lands,  no  one 
seemed  certainly  to  know  about  him,  and  to  the 
new  generation  he  was  no  more  than  a  name. 
But  from  above  the  portal  of  the  Home  for  Old 
Men  the  name  shouted  in  stone. 

Despite  its  unpromising  exterior,  the  Home  is 


THE  APPLICANT.  189 

a  fairly  commodious  place  of  retreat  from  the  ills 
that  its  inmates  have  incurred  by  being  poor  and 
old  and  men.  At  the  time  embraced  in  this  brief 
chronicle  they  were  in  number  about  a  score,  but 
in  acerbity,  querulousness,  and  general  ingrati 
tude  they  could  hardly  be  reckoned  at  fewer  than 
a  hundred ;  at  least  that  was  the  estimate  of  the 
superintendent,  Mr.  Silas  Tilbody.  It  was  Mr. 
Tilbody's  steadfast  conviction  that  always,  in 
admitting  new  old  men  to  replace  those  who  had 
gone  to  another  and  a  better  Home,  the  trustees 
had  distinctly  in  will  the  infraction  of  his  peace, 
and  the  trial  of  his  patience.  In  truth,  the 
longer  the  institution  was  connected  with  him, 
the  stronger  was  his  feeling  that  the  founder's 
scheme  of  benevolence  was  sadly  impaired  by 
providing  any  inmates  at  all.  He  had  not  much 
imagination,  but  with  what  he  had  he  was  ad 
dicted  to  the  reconstruction  of  the  Home  for  Old 
Men  into  a  kind  of  "castle  in  Spain,"  with  himself 
as  castellan,  hospitably  entertaining  about  a  score 
of  sleek  and  prosperous  middle-aged  gentlemen, 
consummately  good-humored  and  civilly  willing 
to  pay  for  their  board  and  lodging.  In  this 
revised  project  of  philanthropy  the  trustees,  to 
whom  he  was  indebted  for  his  office  and  respon 
sible  for  his  conduct,  had  not  the  happiness  to 
appear.  As  to  them,  it  was  held  by  the  village 
humorist  aforementioned  that  in  their  manage 
ment  of  the  great  charity  Providence  had 


190  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

thoughtfully  supplied  an  incentive  to  thrift. 
With  the  inference  which  he  expected  to  be 
drawn  from  that  view  we  have  nothing  to  do ;  it 
had  neither  support  nor  denial  from  the  inmates, 
who  certainly  were  most  concerned.  They  lived 
out  their  little  remnant  of  life,  crept  into  graves 
neatly  numbered,  and  were  succeeded  by  other 
old  men  as  like  them  as  could  be  desired  by  the 
Adversary  of  Peace.  If  the  Home  was  a  place  of 
punishment  for  the  sin  of  unthrift,  the  veteran 
offenders  sought  justice  with  a  persistence  that 
attested  the  sincerity  of  their  penitence.  It  is  to 
one  of  these  that  the  reader's  attention  is  now 
invited. 

In  the  matter  of  attire  this  person  was  not 
altogether  engaging.  But  for  the  season,  which 
was  midwinter,  a  careless  observer  might  have 
looked  upon  him  as  a  clever  device  of  the  hus 
bandman  indisposed  to  share  the  fruits  of  his  toil 
with  the  crows  that  toil  not,  neither  spin — an  error 
that  might  not  have  been  dispelled  without  longer 
and  closer  observation  than  he  seemed  to  court; 
for  his  progress  up  Abersush  Street,  toward  the 
Home,  was  not,  in  the  gloom  of  the  winter  even 
ing,  visibly  faster  than  what  might  have  been 
expected  of  a  scarecrow  blessed  with  youth, 
health,  and  discontent.  The  man  was  indisputa 
bly  ill-clad,  yet  not  without  a  certain  fitness  and 
good  taste,  withal;  for  he  was  obviously  an 
applicant  for  admittance  to  the  Home,  where 


THE  APPLICANT.  191 

poverty  was  a  qualification.  In  the  army  of  in 
digence  the  uniform  is  rags ;  they  serve  to  distin 
guish  the  rank  and  file  from  the  recruiting  officers. 
As  the  old  man,  entering  the  gate  of  the 
grounds,  shuffled  up  the  broad  walk,  already 
white  with  the  fast-falling  snow,  which  from  time 
to  time  he  feebly  shook  from  its  various  coigns 
of  vantage  on  his  person,  he  came  under  inspec 
tion  of  the  large  globe  lamp  that  burned  always 
by  night  over  the  great  door  of  the  building.  As 
if  unwilling  to  incur  its  revealing  beams,  he  turned 
to  the  left,  and,  passing  a  considerable  distance 
along  the  face  of  the  building,  rang  at  a  smaller 
door  emitting  a  dimmer  ray  that  came  from 
within,  through  the  fanlight,  and  expended  itself 
incuriously  overhead.  The  door  was  opened  by 
no  less  a  personage  than  the  great  Mr.  Tilbody 
himself.  Observing  his  visitor,  who  at  once 
uncovered,  and  somewhat  shortened  the  radius  of 
the  permanent  curvature  of  his  back,  the  great 
man  gave  visible  token  of  neither  surprise  nor 
displeasure.  Mr.  Tilbody  was,  indeed,  in  an 
uncommonly  good  humor,  a  phenomenon  as- 
cribable  doubtless  to  the  cheerful  influence  of  the 
season ;  for  this  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  the 
morrow  would  be  that  blessed  365th  part  of  the 
year  that  all  Christian  souls  set  apart  for  mighty 
feats  of  goodness  and  joy.  Mr.  Tilbody  was  so 
full  of  the  spirit  of  the  season  that  his  fat  face 
and  pale  blue  eyes,  whose  ineffectual  fire  served 


I92  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

to  distinguish  it  from  an  untimely  summer 
squash,  effused  so  genial  a  glow  that  it  seemed  a 
pity  that  he  could  not  have  lain  down  in  it, 
basking  in  the  consciousness  of  his  own  identity. 
He  was  hatted,  booted,  overcoated,  and  umbrel- 
laed,  as  became  a  person  who  was  about  to 
expose  himself  to  the  night  and  the  storm  of  an 
errand  of  charity;  for  Mr.  Tilbody  had  just 
parted  from  his  wife  and  children  to  go  "down 
town"  and  purchase  the  wherewithal  to  confirm 
the  annual  falsehood  about  the  hunch-bellied 
saint  who  frequents  the  chimneys  to  reward  little 
boys  and  girls  who  are  good  and  especially  truth 
ful.  So  he  did  not  invite  the  old  man  in,  but 
saluted  him  cheerily: 

"Hello!  just  in  time;  a  moment  later  and  you 
would  have  missed  me.  Come,  I  have  no  time  to 
waste ;  we'll  walk  a  little  way  together." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  old  man,  upon  whose 
thin  and  white  but  not  ignoble  face  the  light  from 
the  open  door  showed  an  expression  that  was 
perhaps  disappointment  made  visible ;  "but  if  the 
trustees — if  my  application " 

"The  trustees,"  Mr.  Tilbody  said,  closing  more 
doors  than  one,  and  cutting  off  two  kinds  of  light, 
"have  agreed  that  your  applicationn  disagrees 
with  them." 

Certain  sentiments  are  inappropriate  to  Christ- 
mastide,  but  Humor,  like  Death,  has  all  seasons 
for  his  own, 


THE  APPLICANT.  193 

"Oh,  my  God !"  cried  the  old  man,  in  so  thin 
and  husky  a  tone  that  the  invocation  was  any 
thing  but  impressive,  and  to  at  least  one  of  his 
two  auditors  sounded,  indeed,  somewhat  ludicrous. 
To  the  Other — but  that  is  a  matter  which  laymen 
are  devoid  of  the  light  to  expound. 

"Yes,"  continued  Mr.  Tilbody,  accommodating 
his  gait  to  that  of  his  companion,  who  was 
mechanically,  and  not  very  successfully,  retracing 
the  track  that  he  had  made  through  the  snow; 
"they  have  decided  that,  under  the  circumstances 
— under  the  very  peculiar  circumstances,  you 
understand — it  would  be  inexpedient  to  admit 
you.  As  superintendent  and  ex  officio  secretary 
of  the  honorable  board" — as  Mr.  Tilbody  "read 
his  titles  clear,"  the  magnitude  of  the  big  build 
ing,  seen  through  its  veil  of  falling  snow,  ap 
peared  to  suffer  somewhat  in  comparison — "it  is 
my  duty  to  inform  you  that,  in  the  words  of 
Deacon  Byram,  the  chairman,  your  presence  in 
the  Home  would — under  the  circumstances — be 
peculiarly  embarrassing.  I  felt  it  my  duty  to 
submit  to  the  honorable  board  the  statement  that 
you  made  to  me  yesterday  of  your  needs,  your 
physical  condition,  and  the  trials  which  it  has 
pleased  Providence  to  send  upon  you  in  your 
very  proper  effort  to  present  your  claims  in  per 
son  ;  but,  after  careful,  and  I  may  say  prayerful, 
consideration  of  your  case — with  something  too, 
I  trust,  of  the  large  charitableness  appropriate  to 


194  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

the  season — it  was  decided  that  we  should  not  be 
justified  in  doing  anything  likely  to  impair  the 
usefulness  of  the  institution  intrusted  (under 
Providence)  to  our  care." 

They  had  now  passed  out  of  the  grounds ;  the 
street  lamp  opposite  the  gate  was  dimly  visible 
through  the  snow.  Already  the  old  man's  former 
track  was  obliterated,  and  he  seemed  uncertain 
as  to  which  way  he  should  go.  Mr.  Tilbody  had 
drawn  a  little  away  from  him,  but  paused  and 
turned  half  toward  him,  apparently  reluctant  to 
forego  the  continuing  opportunity. 

"Under  the  circumstances,"  he  resumed,  "the 
decision " 

But  the  old  man  was  inaccessible  to  the  suasion 
of  his  verbosity ;  he  had  crossed  the  street  into  a 
vacant  lot  and  was  going  forward,  rather  devi 
ously,  toward  nowhere  in  particular — which,  he 
having  nowhere  in  particular  to  go  to,  was  not  so 
reasonless  a  proceeding  as  it  looked. 

And  that  is  how  it  happened  that  the  next 
morning,  when  the  church  bells  of  all  Grayville 
were  ringing  with  an  added  unction  appropriate 
to  the  day,  the  sturdy  little  son  of  Deacon  Byram, 
breaking  a  way  through  the  snow  to  the  place  of 
worship,  struck  his  foot  against  the  body  of  Amasa 
Abersush,  philanthropist. 


ONE  OF  TWINS. 

A  LETTER    FOUND    AMONG  THE    PAPERS  OF 
A  DECEASED   PHYSICIAN. 

You  ask  me  if  in  my  experience  as  one  of  a  pair 
of  twins  I  ever  observed  anything  unaccountable 
by  such  natural  laws  as  we  have  acquaintance 
with.  As  to  that  you  shall  judge;  perhaps  we 
have  not  all  acquaintance  with  the  same  natural 
laws.  You  may  know  some  that  I  do  not,  and 
what  is  to  me  unaccountable  may  be  very  clear 
to  you. 

You  knew  my  brother  John — that  is,  you  knew 
him  when  you  knew  that  I  was  not  present ;  but 
neither  you  nor,  I  believe,  any  human  being  could 
distinguish  between  him  and  me  if  we  chose  to 
seem  alike.  Our  parents  could  not ;  ours  is  the 
only  instance  of  which  I  have  any  knowledge  of 
so  close  resemblance  as  that.  I  speak  of  my 
brother  John,  but  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  his 
name  was  not  Henry  and  mine  John.  We  were 
regularly  christened,  but  afterward,  in  the  very 
act  of  branding  us  with  small  distinguishing 
marks,  the  operator  lost  his  reckoning;  and 
although  I  bear  upon  my  forearm  a  small  "H" 

195 


I96  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

and  he  bore  a  "J,"  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that 
the  letters  ought  not  to  have  been  transposed. 
During  our  boyhood  our  parents  tried  to  distin 
guish  us  more  obviously  by  our  clothing  and 
other  simple  devices,  but  we  would  so  frequently 
exchange  suits  and  otherwise  circumvent  the 
enemy  that  they  abandoned  all  such  ineffectual 
attempts,  and  during  all  the  years  that  we  lived 
together  at  home  everybody  recognized  the  diffi 
culty  of  the  situation  and  made  the  best  of  it  by 
calling  us  both  "Jenry."  I  have  often  wondered 
at  my  father's  forbearance  in  not  branding  us 
conspicuously  upon  our  unworthy  brows,  but  as 
we  were  tolerably  good  boys  and  used  our  power 
of  embarrassment  and  annoyance  with  commend 
able  moderation,  we  escaped  the  iron.  My  father 
was,  in  fact,  a  singularly  good-natured  man,  and 
I  think  quietly  enjoyed  nature's  practical  joke. 

Soon  after  we  had  come  to  California,  and 
settled  at  San  Jose  (where  the  only  good  fortune 
that  awaited  us  was  our  meeting  with  so  kind  a 
friend  as  you),  the  family,  as  you  know,  was 
broken  up  by  the  death  of  both  my  parents  in 
one  week.  My  father  died  insolvent  and  the 
homestead  was  sacrificed  to  pay  his  debts.  My 
sisters  returned  to  relations  in  the  East,  but 
owing  to  your  kindness  John  and  I,  then  twenty- 
two  years  of  age,  obtained  employment  in  San 
Francisco,  in  different  quarters  of  the  town. 
Circumstances  did  not  permit  us  to  live  together, 


ONE  OF  TWINS.  197 

and  we  saw  each  other  infrequently,  sometimes 
not  oftener  than  once  a  week.  As  we  had  few 
acquaintances  in  common,  the  fact  of  our  extra 
ordinary  likeness  was  little  known.  I  come  now 
to  the  matter  of  your  inquiry. 

One  day  soon  after  we  had  come  to  this  city  I 
was  walking  down  Market  Street  late  in  the 
afternoon,  when  I  was  accosted  by  a  well-dressed 
man  of  middle  age,  who  after  greeting  me  cordi 
ally  said :  "Stevens,  I  know,  of  course,  that  you 
do  not  go  out  much,  but  I  have  told  my  wife 
about  you,  and  she  would  be  glad  to  see  you  at 
the  house.  I  have  a  notion,  too,  that  my  girls  are 
worth  knowing.  Suppose  you  come  out  to 
morrow  at  six  and  dine  with  us,  en  famille ;  and 
then  if  the  ladies  can't  amuse  you  afterward  I'll 
stand  in  with  a  few  games  of  billiards." 

This  was  said  with  so  bright  a  smile  and  so 
engaging  a  manner  that  I  had  not  the  heart  to 
refuse,  and  although  I  had  never  seen  the  man  in 
my  life  I  promptly  replied:  "You  are  very  good, 
sir,  and  it  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  accept 
the  invitation.  Please  present  my  compliments 
to  Mrs.  Margovan  and  ask  her  to  expect  me." 

With  a  shake  of  the  hand  and  a  pleasant  part 
ing  word  the  man  passed  on.  That  he  had 
mistaken  me  for  my  brother  was  plain  enough. 
That  was  an  error  to  which  I  was  accustomed  and 
which  it  was  not  my  habit  to  rectify  unless  the 
matter  seemed  important.  But  how  had  I  known 


198  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

that  this  man's  name  was  Margovan?  It  certainly 
is  not  a  name  which  one  could  apply  to  a  man  at 
random  with  a  probability  that  it  would  be  right. 
In  point  of  fact,  the  name  was  as  strange  to  me 
as  the  man. 

The  next  morning  I  hastened  to  where  my 
brother  was  employed  and  met  him  just  coming 
out  of  the  office  with  a  number  of  bills  which  he 
was  to  collect.  I  told  him  how  I  had  "com 
mitted"  him  and  added  that  if  he  didn't  care  to 
keep  the  engagement  I  should  be  delighted  to 
continue  the  impersonation. 

"That's  funny,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "Mar- 
govan  is  the  only  man  in  the  office  here  whom  I 
know  well  and  like.  When  he  came  in  this 
morning  and  we  had  passed  the  usual  greetings 
some  singular  impulse  prompted  me  to  say:  'Oh, 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Margovan,  but  I  neg 
lected  to  ask  your  address.'  I  got  the  address, 
but  what  under  the  sun  I  was  to  do  with  it,  I  did 
not  know  until  now.  It's  good  of  you  to  offer  to 
take  the  consequence  of  your  impudence,  but  I'll 
eat  that  dinner  myself,  if  you  please." 

He  ate  a  number  of  dinners  at  the  same  place 
— more  than  were  good  for  him,  I  may  add  with 
out  disparaging  their  quality ;  for  he  fell  in  love 
with  Miss  Margovan,  proposed  marriage  to  her 
and  was  heartlessly  accepted. 

Several  weeks  after  I  had  been  informed  of  the 
engagement,  but  before  it  had  been  convenient 


ONE  OF  TWINS.  199 

for  me  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  young 
woman  and  her  family,  I  met  one  day  on  Kearney 
Street  a  handsome  but  somewhat  dissipated  look 
ing  man  whom  something  prompted  me  to  follow 
and  watch,  which,  feeling  that  I  was  myself  unob 
served,  I  did  without  any  scruple  whatever.  He 
turned  up  Geary  Street  and  followed  it  until  he 
came  to  Union  Square.  There  he  looked  at  his 
watch,  then  entered  the  square.  He  loitered 
about  the  paths  for  some  time,  evidently  waiting 
for  someone.  Presently  he  was  joined  by  a  fash 
ionably  dressed  and  beautiful  young  woman  and 
the  two  walked  away  up  Stockton  Street,  I 
following.  I  now  felt  the  necessity  of  extreme 
caution,  for  although  the  girl  was  a  stranger  it 
seemed  to  me  that  she  would  recognize  me  at  a 
glance.  They  made  several  turns  from  one  street 
to  another  and  finally,  after  both  had  taken  a 
hasty  look  all  about — which  I  narrowly  evaded 
by  stepping  into  a  doorway — they  entered  a 
house  of  which  I  do  not  care  to  state  the  location. 
Its  location  was  better  than  its  character. 

I  protest  that  my  action  in  playing  the  spy 
upon  these  two  strangers  was  absolutely  without 
assignable  motive.  It  was  one  of  which  I  might 
or  might  not  be  ashamed,  according  to  my  esti 
mate  of  the  character  of  the  person  rinding  it  out. 
As  an  essential  part  of  a  narrative  educed  by  your 
question,  it  is  related  here  without  hesitancy  or 
shame. 


200  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE* 

A  week  later  John  took  me  to  the  house  of  his 
prospective  father-in-law,  and  in  Miss  Margovan, 
as  you  have  already  surmised,  but  to  my  profound 
astonishment,  I  recognized  the  heroine  of  that 
discreditable  adventure.  A  gloriously  beautiful 
heroine  of  a  discreditable  adventure  I  must  in 
justice  admit  that  she  was;  but  that  fact  has  only 
this  importance :  her  beauty  was  such  a  surprise 
to  me  that  it  cast  a  doubt  upon  her  identity  with 
the  young  woman  I  had  seen  before ;  how  could 
the  marvelous  fascination  of  her  face  have  failed 
to  strike  me  at  that  time?  But  no — there  was  no 
possibility  of  error;  the  difference  was  due  to 
costume,  light,  and  general  surroundings. 

John  and  I  passed  the  evening  at  the  house, 
enduring,  with  the  fortitude  of  long  experience, 
such  delicate  enough  banter  as  our  likeness  nat 
urally  suggested.  When  the  young  lady  and  I 
were  left  alone  for  a  few  minutes  I  looked  her 
squarely  in  the  face  and  said  with  sudden  gravity : 

"You,  too,  Miss  Margovan,  have  a  double:  I 
saw  her  last  Tuesday  afternoon  in  Union  Square." 

She  trained  her  great  gray  eyes  upon  me  for  a 
moment,  but  her  glance  was  a  trifle  less  steady 
than  my  own  and  she  withdrew  it  and  fixed  it  on 
the  tip  of  her  shoe. 

"Was  she  very  like  me?"  she  asked,  with  an 
indifference  which  I  thought  a  little  overdone. 

"So  like,"  said  I,  "that  I  greatly  admired  her, 
and  being  unwilling  to  lose  sight  of  her  I  confess 


ONE  OF  TWINS.  201 

I  followed  her  until— Miss  Margovan,  are  you 
sure  that  you  understand?" 

She  was  now  pale  but  perfectly  calm.  She 
again  raised  her  eyes  to  mine,  with  a  look  that 
did  not  falter. 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  do?"  she  asked. 
"You  need  not  fear  to  name  your  terms.  I 
accept  them." 

It  was  plain,  even  in  the  brief  time  given  me  for 
reflection,  that  in  dealing  with  this  girl  ordinary 
methods  would  not  do,  and  ordinary  exactions 
were  needless. 

"Miss  Margovan,"  I  said,  doubtless  with  some 
thing  of  the  compassion  in  my  voice  that  I  had 
in  my  heart,  "it  is  impossible  not  to  think  you 
the  victim  of  some  horrible  compulsion.  Rather 
than  impose  new  embarrassments  upon  you  I 
would  prefer  to  aid  you  to  regain  your  freedom." 

She  shook  her  head,  sadly  and  hopelessly,  and 
I  continued,  with  agitation : 

"Your  beauty  unnerves  me.  I  am  disarmed  by 
your  frankness  and  your  distress.  If  you  are  free 
to  act  upon  conscience,  you  will,  I  believe,  do 
what  you  conceive  to  be  best ;  if  you  are  nofr — 
well,  Heaven  help  us  all !  You  have  nothing  to 
fear  from  me  but  such  opposition  to  this  marriage 
as  I  can  try  to  justify  on — on  other  grounds." 

These  were  not  my  exact  words,  but  that  was 
the  sense  of  them,  as  nearly  as  my  sudden  and 
conflicting  emotions  permitted  me  to  express  it. 


202  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE! 

I  rose  and  left  her  without  another  look  at  her, 
met  the  others  as  they  re-entered  the  room  and 
said,  as  calmly  as  I  could :  "I  have  been  bidding 
Miss  Margovan  good-evening;  it  is  later  than  I 
thought." 

John  decided  to  go  with  me.  In  the  street  he 
asked  if  I  had  observed  anything  singular  in 
Julia's  manner. 

"I  thought  her  ill,"  I  replied;  "that  is  why  I 
left."  Nothing  more  was  said. 

The  next  evening  I  came  late  to  my  lodgings. 
The  events  of  the  previous  evening  had  made  me 
nervous  and  ill ;  I  had  tried  to  cure  myself  and 
attain  to  clear  thinking  by  walking  in  the  open 
air,  but  I  was  oppressed  with  a  horrible  presenti 
ment  of  evil — a  presentiment  which  I  could  not 
formulate.  It  was  a  chill,  foggy  night ;  my  cloth 
ing  and  my  hair  were  damp  and  I  shook  with  cold. 
In  my  dressing  gown  and  slippers  before  a  blazing 
grate  of  coals  I  was  even  more  uncomfortable.  I 
no  longer  shivered  but  shuddered— there  is  a 
difference.  The  dread  of  some  impending  calam 
ity  was  so  strong  and  dispiriting  that  I  tried  to 
drive  it  away  by  inviting  a  real  sorrow — tried  to 
dispel  the  conception  of  a  terrible  future  by 
substituting  the  memory  of  a  painful  past :  I 
recalled  the  death  of  my  parents  and  endeavored 
vainly  to  fix  my  mind  upon  the  last  sad  scenes  at 
their  bedsides  and  their  graves.  It  all  seemed 
vague  and  unreal,  as  having  occurred  ages  ago 


ONE  OF  TWINS.  203 

and  to  another  person.  Suddenly,  striking 
through  my  thought  and  parting  it  as  a  tense 
cord  is  parted  by  the  stroke  of  steel — I  can  think 
of  no  other  comparison — I  heard  a  sharp  cry  as 
of  one  in  mortal  agony !  The  voice  was  that  of 
my  brother  and  seemed  to  come  from  the  street 
outside  my  window.  I  sprang  to  the  window  and 
threw  it  open.  A  street  lamp  directly  opposite 
threw  a  wan  and  ghastly  light  upon  the  wet 
pavement  and  the  fronts  of  the  houses.  A  single 
policeman,  with  upturned  collar,  was  leaning 
against  a  gatepost,  quietly  smoking  a  cigar.  No 
one  else  was  in  sight.  I  closed  the  window  and 
pulled  down  the  shade,  seated  myself  before  the 
fire,  and  tried  to  fix  my  mind  upon  my  surround 
ings.  By  way  of  assisting,  by  the  performance 
of  some  familiar  act,  I  looked  at  my  watch ;  it 
marked  half-past  eleven.  Again  I  heard  that 
awful  cry !  It  seemed  in  the  room — at  my  side. 
I  was  frightened  and  for  some  moments  had  not 
the  power  to  move.  A  few  minutes  later — I  have 
no  recollection  of  the  intermediate  time — I  found 
myself  hurrying  along  an  unfamiliar  street  as  fast 
as  I  could  walk.  I  did  not  know  where  I  was, 
nor  whither  I  was  going,  but  presently  sprang  up 
the  steps  of  a  house  before  which  were  two  or 
three  carriages  and  in  which  were  moving  lights 
and  a  subdued  confusion  of  voices.  It  was  the 
house  of  Mr.  Margovan. 

You    know,  good   friend,  what   had   occurred 


204  CAN  SUCti  THINGS  BE? 

there.  In  one  chamber  lay  Julia  Margovan, 
hours  dead  by  poison;  in  another  John  Stevens, 
bleeding  from  a  pistol  wound  in  the  chest,  inflicted 
by  his  own  hand.  As  I  burst  into  the  room, 
pushed  aside  the  physicians  and  laid  my  hand 
upon  his  forehead,  he  unclosed  his  eyes,  stared 
blankly,  closed  them  slowly,  and  died  without  a 
sign. 

I  knew  no  more  until  six  weeks  afterward,  when 
I  had  been  nursed  back  to  life  by  your  own 
saintly  wife  in  your  own  beautiful  home.  All  of 
that  you  know,  but  what  you  do  not  know  is  this 
— which,  however,  has  no  bearing  upon  the  subject 
of  your  psychological  researches — at  least  not 
upon  that  branch  of  them  in  which,  with  a  deli 
cacy  and  consideration  all  your  own,  you  have 
asked  for  less  assistance  than  I  think  I  have 
given  you : 

One  moonlight  night  several  years  afterward  I 
was  passing  through  Union  Square.  The  hour 
was  late  and  the  square  deserted.  Certain  mem 
ories  of  the  past  naturally  came  into  my  mind  as 
I  came  to  the  spot  where  I  had  once  witnessed 
that  fateful  assignation,  and  with  that  unaccount 
able  perversity  which  prompts  us  to  dwell  upon 
thoughts  of  the  most  painful  character,  I  seated 
myself  upon  one  of  the  benches  to  indulge  them. 
A  man  entered  the  square  and  came  along  the 
walk  toward  me.  His  hands  were  clasped  behind 
him,  his  head  was  bowed ;  he  seemed  to  observe 


ONE  OF  TWINS.  205 

nothing.  As  he  approached  the  shadow  in  which 
I  sat,  I  recognized  him  as  the  man  whom  I  had 
seen  meet  Julia  Margovan  years  before  at  that 
spot.  But  he  was  terribly  altered — gray,  worn, 
and  haggard.  Dissipation  and  vice  were  in 
evidence  in  every  look ;  illness  was  no  less  appar 
ent.  His  clothing  was  in  disorder,  his  hair  fell 
across  his  forehead  in  a  derangement  which  was 
at  once  uncanny  and  picturesque.  He  looked 
fitter  for  restraint  than  liberty — the  restraint  of  a 
hospital. 

With  no  defined  purpose  I  rose  and  confronted 
him.  He  raised  his  head  and  looked  me  full  in 
the  face.  I  have  no  words  to  describe  the  ghastly 
change  that  came  over  his  own ;  it  was  a  look  of 
unspeakable  terror — he  thought  himself  eye  to 
eye  with  a  ghost.  But  he  was  a  man  of  courage. 
"D — n  you,  John  Stevens!"  he  cried,  and 
lifting  his  trembling  arm  he  dashed  his  fist  feebly 
at  my  face,  and  fell  headlong  upon  the  gravel  as 
I  walked  away. 

Somebody  found  him  there,  stone-dead. 
Nothing  more  is  known  of  him,  not  even  his 
name.  To  know  of  a  man  that  he  is  dead  should 
be  enough. 


THE    NIGHT-DOINGS   AT 
"DEADMAN'S." 

A  STORY  THAT  IS  UNTRUE. 

IT  was  a  singularly  sharp  night,  and  clear  as  the 
heart  of  a  diamond.  Clear  nights  have  a  trick  of 
being  keen.  In  black  dark  you  may  be  cold  and 
not  know  it ;  when  you  see,  you  suffer.  This 
night  was  beautiful  enough  to  bite  like  a  serpent. 
The  moon  was  moving  mysteriously  along  behind 
the  giant  pines  crowning  the  South  Mountain, 
striking  a  cold  sparkle  from  the  crusted  snow,  and 
bringing  out  against  the  black  west  the  ghostly 
outlines  of  the  Coast  Range,  beyond  which  lay 
the  invisible  Pacific.  The  snow  had  piled  itself, 
in  the  open  spaces  along  the  bottom  of  the  gulch, 
into  long  ridges  that  seemed  to  heave,  and  into 
hills  that  appeared  to  toss  and  scatter  spray. 
The  spray  was  sunlight,  twice  reflected :  dashed 
once  from  the  moon,  once  from  the  snow. 

In  this  snow,  many  of  the  shanties  of  the 
abandoned  mining  camp  were  quite  obliterated, 
(a  sailor  might  have  said  they  had  gone  down)  and 
at  irregular  intervals  it  had  overtopped  the  tall 
trestles  which  had  once  supported  a  river  called 

207 


208  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

a  flume;  for,  of  course,  "flume"  is  flumen. 
Among  the  advantages  of  which  the  mountains 
cannot  deprive  the  gold  hunter,  is  the  privilege  of 
speaking  Latin.  He  says  of  his  dead  neighbor, 
"He  has  gone  up  the  flume."  This  is  not  a  bad 
way  to  say,  "His  life  has  returned  to  the  Foun 
tain  of  Life." 

While  putting  on  its  armor  against  the  assaults 
of  the  wind,  this  snow  had  neglected  no  coign  of 
vantage.  Snow  pursued  by  the  wind  is  not  wholly 
unlike  a  retreating  army.  In  the  open  field  it 
ranges  itself  in  ranks  and  battalions ;  where  it  can 
get  a  foothold  it  makes  a  stand ;  where  it  can 
take  cover  it  does  so.  You  may  see  whole 
platoons  of  snow  cowering  behind  a  bit  of  broken 
wall.  The  devious  old  road,  hewn  out  of  the 
mountain  side,  was  full  of  it.  Squadron  upon 
squadron  had  struggled  to  escape  by  this  line, 
when  suddenly  pursuit  had  ceased.  A  more 
desolate  and  dreary  spot  than  Deadman's  Gulch 
in  a  winter  midnight  it  is  impossible  to  imagine. 
Yet  Mr.  Hiram  Beeson  elected  to  live  there,  the 
sole  inhabitant. 

Away  up  the  side  of  the  North  Mountain  his 
little  pine-log  shanty  projected  from  its  single 
pane  of  glass  a  long  thin  beam  of  light,  and 
looked  not  altogether  unlike  a  black  beetle 
fastened  to  the  hillside  with  a  bright  new  pin. 
Within  it  sat  Mr.  Beeson  himself,  before  a  roaring 
fire,  staring  into  its  hot  heart  as  if  he  had  never 


THE  NIGHT-DOINGS  A  T  "  DE ADMAN'S."     209 

before  seen  such  a  thing  in  all  his  life.  He  was 
not  a  comely  man.  He  was  gray ;  he  was  ragged 
and  slovenly  in  his  attire ;  his  face  was  wan  and 
haggard;  his  eyes  were  too  bright.  As  to  his 
age,  if  one  had  attempted  to  guess  it,  one  might 
have  said  forty-seven,  then  corrected  himself 
and  said  seventy-four.  He  was  really  twenty- 
eight.  Emaciated  he  was;  as  much,  perhaps,  as 
he  dared  be,  with  a  needy  undertaker  at  Bentley's 
Flat  and  a  brand-new  coroner  at  Sonora.  Pov 
erty  and  zeal  are  an  upper  and  a  nether  mill 
stone.  It  is  dangerous  to  make  a  third  in  that 
kind  of  sandwich. 

As  Mr.  Beeson  sat  there,  with  his  ragged  elbows 
on  his  ragged  knees,  his  lean  jaws  buried  in  his 
lean  hands,  and  with  no  apparent  intention  of 
going  to  bed,  he  looked  as  if  the  slightest  move 
ment  would  tumble  him  in  pieces.  Yet  during 
the  last  hour  he  had  winked  no  fewer  than  three 
times.  Suddenly  there  was  a  sharp  rapping  at 
the  door.  A  rap  at  that  time  of  night,  and  in  that 
weather  might  have  surprised  an  ordinary  mortal 
who  had  dwelt  two  years  in  the  gulch  without 
seeing  a  human  face,  and  who  could  not  but  know 
that  the  country  was  absolutely  impassable ;  but 
Mr.  Beeson  did  not  so  much  as  pull  his  eyes  out 
of  the  coals.  And  even  when  the  door  was 
pushed  open  he  only  shrugged  a  little  more 
closely  into  himself,  as  one  does  who  is  expecting 
something  that  he  would  rather  not  see,  You 


210  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

may  observe  this  movement  in  women  when,  in 
a  mortuary  chapel,  the  coffin  is  borne  up  the  aisle 
behind  them. 

But  when  a  long  old  man  in  a  blanket  overcoat, 
his  head  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief  and  nearly  his 
entire  face  in  a  muffler,  wearing  green  goggles, 
and  with  a  complexion  of  glittering  whiteness 
where  it  could  be  seen,  strode  silently  into  the 
room,  laying  a  hard,  gloved  hand  on  Mr.  Beeson's 
shoulder,  the  latter  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to 
look  up,  with  an  appearance  of  no  small  astonish 
ment;  whomever  he  may  have  been  expecting, 
he  had  evidently  not  counted  on  meeting  anyone 
like  this.  Nevertheless,  the  sight  of  this  un 
expected  guest  produced  in  Mr.  Beeson  the 
following  sequence :  a  feeling  of  astonishment ;  a 
sense  of  gratification ;  a  sentiment  of  profound 
good  will.  Rising  from  his  seat,  he  took  the 
knotty  hand  from  his  shoulder,  and  shook  it  up 
and  down  with  a  fervor  quite  unaccountable;  for 
in  the  old  man's  aspect  was  nothing  to  attract, 
much  to  repel.  However,  attraction  is  too  gen 
eral  a  property  for  repulsion  to  be  without  it. 
The  most  attractive  object  in  the  world  is  the 
face  we  instinctively  cover  with  a  cloth.  When 
it  becomes  still  more  attractive — fascinating — 
we  put  seven  feet  of  earth  above  it. 

"Sir,"  said  Mr.  Beeson,  releasing  the  old  gen 
tleman's  hand,  which  fell  passively  against  his 
thigh  with  a  quiet  clack,  "it  is  an  extremely  dis- 


THE  NIGHT-DOINGS  A  T  "  DEADMAN'S.n     2 1 1 

agreeable  night.  Pray  be  seated ;  I  am  very  glad 
to  see  you." 

Mr.  Beeson  spoke  with  an  easy  good  breeding 
that  one  would  hardly  have  expected,  considering 
all  things.  Indeed,  the  contrast  between  his 
appearance  and  his  manner  was  sufficiently  sur 
prising  to  be  one  of  the  commonest  of  social 
phenomena  in  the  mines.  The  old  gentleman 
advanced  a  step  toward  the  fire,  glowing  cavern- 
ously  in  the  green  goggles.  Mr.  Beeson  resumed : 

"You  bet  your  life  I  am!" 

Mr.  Beeson's  elegance  was  not  too  refined ;  it 
had  made  reasonable  concessions  to  local  taste. 
He  paused  a  moment,  letting  his  eyes  drop  from, 
the  muffled  head  of  his  guest,  down  along  the 
row  of  moldy  buttons  confining  the  blanket  over 
coat,  to  the  greenish  cowhide  boots  powdered 
with  snow,  which  had  begun  to  melt  and  run 
along  the  floor  in  little  rills.  He  took  an  inven 
tory  of  his  guest,  and  appeared  satisfied.  Who 
would  not  have  been?  Then  he  continued : 

"The  cheer  I  can  offer  you  is,  unfortunately, 
in  keeping  with  my  surroundings;  but  I  shall 
esteem  myself  highly  favored  if  it  is  your  pleasure 
to  partake  of  it,  rather  than  seek  better  at  Bent- 
ley's  Flat." 

With  a  singular  refinement  of  hospitable 
humility,  Mr.  Beeson  spoke  as  if  a  sojourn  in  his 
warm  cabin  on  such  a  night,  as  compared  with 
walking  fourteen  miles  up  to  the  throat  in  snow 


2 1 2  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE  ? 

with  a  cutting  crust,  would  be  a  peculiar  hardship. 
By  way  of  reply,  his  guest  unbuttoned  the  blanket 
overcoat.  The  host  laid  fresh  fuel  on  the  fire,  swept 
the  hearth  with  the  tail  of  a  wolf,  and  added : 
"But  /think  you'd  better  skedaddle." 
The  old  man  took  a  seat  by  the  fire,  spreading 
his  broad  soles  to  the  heat  without  removing  his 
hat.  In  the  mines,  the  hat  is  seldom  removed 
except  when  the  boots  are.  Without  further 
remark  Mr.  Beeson  also  seated  himself  in  a  chair 
which  had  been  a  barrel,  and  which,  retaining 
much  of  its  original  character,  seemed  to  have 
been  designed  with  a  view  to  preserving  his  dust, 
if  it  should  please  him  to  crumble.  For  a 
moment  there  was  silence ;  then,  from  somewhere 
among  the  pines  came  the  snarling  yelp  of  a 
coyote  ;  and  simultaneously  the  door  rattled  in  its 
frame.  There  was  no  other  connection  between 
the  two  incidents  than  that  the  coyote  has  an 
aversion  to  storms,  and  the  wind  was  rising ;  yet 
there  seemed  somehow  a  kind  of  supernatural 
conspiracy  between  the  two,  and  Mr.  Beeson 
shuddered  with  a  vague  sense  of  terror.  He 
recovered  himself  in  a  moment,  and  again 
addressed  his  guest. 

"There  are  strange  doings  here.  I  will  tell  you 
everything,  and  then  if  you  decide  to  go,  I  shall 
hope  to  accompany  you  over  the  worst  of  the 
way ;  as  far  as  where  Baldy  Peterson  shot  Ben 
Hike — I  dare  say  you  know  the  place," 


THE  NIGHT-DOINGS  AT  "  DEAD  MAN 'S. "     2  i  3 

The  old  gentleman  nodded  emphatically,  as 
intimating  not  merely  that  he  did,  but  that  he 
did  indeed. 

"Two  years  ago,"  began  Mr.  Beeson,  "I,  with 
two  companions,  occupied  this  house;  but  when 
the  rush  to  the  Flat  occurred  we  left,  along  with 
the  rest.  In  ten  hours  the  Gulch  was  deserted. 
That  evening,  however,  I  discovered  I  had  left 
behind  me  a  valuable  pistol  (that  is  it),  and 
returned  for  it,  passing  the  night  here  quite 
alone,  as  I  have  passed  every  night  since.  I 
must  explain  that  a  few  days  before  we  left,  our 
Chinese  domestic  had  the  misfortune  to  die  while 
the  ground  was  frozen  so  hard  that  it  was  quite 
impossible  to  dig  a  grave  in  the  usual  way.  So, 
on  the  day  of  our  hasty  departure,  we  cut 
through  the  floor  there,  and  gave  him  such  bur 
ial  as  we  could.  But  before  putting  him  down, 
I  had  the  extremely  bad  taste  to  cut  off  his  cue 
and  spike  it  to  that  beam  above  his  grave,  where 
you  may  see  it  at  this  moment,  or,  prefera 
bly,  when  warmth  has  given  you  leisure  for 
observation. 

"I  stated,  did  I  not,  that  the  Chinaman  came 
to  his  death  from  natural  causes?  I  had,  of  course, 
nothing  to  do  with  that,  and  returned  through  no 
irresistible  attraction,  or  morbid  fascination,  but 
only  because  I  had  forgotten  a  pistol.  This  is 
clear  to  you,  is  it  not,  sir?" 

The  visitor  nodded  gravely.     He  appeared  to 


214  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

be  a  man  of  few  words,  if  any.  Mr.  Beeson 
continued : 

"According  to  the  Chinese  faith,  a  man  is  like 
a  kite:  he  cannot  go  to  heaven  without  a  tail. 
Well,  to  shorten  this  tedious  story, — which,  how 
ever,  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  relate, — on  that 
night,  while  I  was  here  alone,  and  thinking  of 
anything  but  him,  that  Chinaman  came  back  for 
his  pigtail. 

"He  did  not  get  it." 

At  this  point  Mr.  Beeson  relapsed  into  blank 
silence.  Perhaps  he  was  fatigued  by  the  un 
wonted  exercise  of  speaking;  perhaps  he  had 
conjured  up  a  memory  that  demanded  his  undi 
vided  attention.  The  wind  was  now  fairly 
abroad,  and  the  pines  along  the  mountain  side 
sang  with  singular  distinctness.  The  narrator 
continued : 

"You  say  you  do  not  see  much  in  that,  and  I 
must  confess  I  do  not  myself. 

"But  he  keeps  coming!" 

There  was  another  long  silence,  during  which 
both  stared  into  the  fire  without  the  movement 
of  a  limb.  Then  Mr.  Beeson  broke  out,  almost 
fiercely,  fixing  his  eyes  on  what  he  could  see  of 
the  impassive  face  of  his  auditor. 

"Give  it  him?  Sir,  in  this  matter  I  have  no 
intention  of  troubling  anyone  for  advice.  You 
will  pardon  me,  I  am  sure" — here  he  became 
singularly  persuasive — "but  I  have  ventured  to 


THE  NIGHT-DOINGS  AT  " DEADMAM'S."     215 

nail  that  pigtail  fast,  and  have  assumed  the  some 
what  onerous  obligation  of  guarding  it.  So  it  is 
quite  impossible  to  act  on  your  considerate 
suggestion. 

"Do  you  play  me  for  a  Modoc?" 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  sudden  ferocity  with 
which  he  thrust  this  indignant  remonstrance  into 
the  ear  of  his  guest.  It  was  as  if  he  had  struck 
him  on  the  side  of  the  head  with  a  steel  gauntlet. 
It  was  a  protest,  but  it  was  a  challenge.  To  be 
mistaken  for  a  coward — to  be  played  for  a 
Modoc:  these  two  expressions  are  one.  Some 
times  it  is  a  Chinaman.  Do  you  play  me  for  a 
Chinaman?  is  a  question  frequently  addressed  to 
the  ear  of  the  suddenly  dead. 

Mr.  Beeson's  buffet  produced  no  effect,  and, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  during  which  the  wind 
thundered  in  the  chimney  like  the  sound  of  clods 
upon  a  coffin,  he  resumed : 

"But,  as  you  say,  it  is  wearing  me  out.  I  feel 
that  the  life  of  the  last  two  years  has  been  a 
mistake — a  mistake  that  corrects  itself;  you  see 
how.  The  grave !  No ;  there  is  no  one  to  dig  it. 
The  ground  is  frozen,  too.  But  you  are  very 
welcome.  You  may  say  at  Bentley's — but  that 
is  not  important.  It  was  very  tough  to  cut: 
they  braid  silk  into  their  tails.  Kwaagh." 

Mr.  Beeson  was  speaking  with  his  eyes  shut, 
and  he  wandered.  His  last  word  was  a  snore.  A 
moment  later  he  drew  a  long  breath,  opened  his 


CAM  SUCH  THINGS  &E? 

eyes  with  an  effort,  made  a  single  remark,  and 
fell  into  a  deep  sleep.  What  he  said  was  this  : 

"They  are  gobbling  my  dust !" 

Then  the  aged  stranger,  who  had  not  uttered 
one  word  since  his  arrival,  arose  from  his  seat, 
and  deliberately  laid  off  his  outer  clothing;  look 
ing  as  angular  in  his  flannels  as  the  late  Signorina 
Festorazzi,  an  Irish  woman,  six  feet  in  height, 
and  weighing  fifty-six  pounds,  who  used  to 
exhibit  herself  in  her  chemise  to  the  people  of 
San  Francisco.  He  then  crept  into  one  of  the 
"bunks,"  having  first  placed  a  revolver  in  easy 
reach,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  country. 
This  revolver  he  took  from  a  shelf,  and  it  was  the 
one  which  Mr.  Beeson  had  mentioned  as  that  for 
which  he  had  returned  to  the  Gulch  two  years 
before. 

In  a  few  moments  Mr.  Beeson  awoke,  and 
seeing  that  his  guest  had  retired,  he  did  likewise. 
But  before  doing  so  he  approached  the  long 
plaited  wisp  of  pagan  hair,  and  gave  it  a  powerful 
tug,  to  assure  himself  that  it  was  fast  and  firm. 
The  two  beds — mere  shelves  covered  with  blan 
kets  not  overclean — faced  each  other  from  oppo 
site  sides  of  the  room ;  the  little  square  trapdoor 
that  had  given  access  to  the  Chinaman's  grave 
being  midway  between.  This,  by  the  way,  was 
crossed  by  a  double  row  of  spike  heads.  In  his 
resistance  to  the  supernatural,  Mr.  Beeson  had 
not  disdained  the  use  of  material  precautions. 


THE  NIGHT-DOINGS  A  T  "DEADMAN'S."      217 

The  fire  was  now  low,  the  flames  burning  bluely 
and  petulantly,  with  occasional  flashes,  projecting 
spectral  shadows  on  the  walls — shadows  that 
moved  mysteriously  about,  now  dividing,  now 
uniting.  The  shadow  of  the  pendant  cue, 
however,  kept  moodily  apart,  near  the  roof  at  the 
further  end  of  the  room,  where  it  looked  like  a 
note  of  admiration.  The  song  of  the  pines  out 
side  had  now  risen  to  the  dignity  of  a  triumphal 
hymn,  in  the  pauses  of  which  the  silence  was 
dreadful. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  intervals  that  the 
trap  in  the  floor  began  to  lift.  Slowly  and  stead 
ily  it  rose,  and  slowly  and  steadily  rose  the 
swaddled  head  of  the  old  gentleman  in  the  bunk 
to  observe  it.  Then,  with  a  clap  that  shook  the 
house  to  its  foundation,  it  was  thrown  clean 
back,  where  it  lay  with  its  unsightly  spikes  point 
ing  threateningly  upward.  Mr.  Beeson  awoke, 
and,  without  rising,  pressed  his  fingers  into  his 
eyes.  He  shuddered ;  his  teeth  chattered.  His 
guest  was  now  reclining  on  one  elbow,  watching 
the  proceedings  with  goggles  that  glowed  like 
lamps. 

Suddenly  a  howling  gust  of  wind  swooped  down 
the  chimney,  scattering  ashes  and  smoke  in  every 
direction,  for  a  moment  obscuring  everything. 
When  the  firelight  again  illuminated  the  room, 
there  was  seen,  sitting  gingerly  on  the  edge  of  a 
stool  by  the  hearthside,  a  swarthy  little  man,  of 


2l8  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

prepossessing  appearance,  dressed  with  faultless 
taste,  and  nodding  to  the  old  man  with  a  familiar 
and  most  engaging  smile.  "From  San  Francisco, 
evidently,"  thought  Mr.  Beeson,  who,  having 
somewhat  recovered  from  his  fright,  was  groping 
his  way  to  a  solution  of  the  evening's  events. 

But  now  another  actor  appeared  upon  the 
scene.  Out  of  the  square  black  hole  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor  protruded  the  head  of  the 
departed  Chinaman,  his  glassy  eyes  turned  up 
ward  in  their  angular  slits,  and  fastened  on  the 
dangling  cue  above  with  a  look  of  yearning 
unspeakable.  Mr.  Beeson  groaned,  and  again 
spread  his  hands  upon  his  face.  A  mild  odor  of 
opium  pervaded  the  place.  The  phantom,  clad 
only  in  a  short  blue  tunic,  quilted  and  silken,  but 
covered  with  grave  mold,  rose  slowly,  as  if  pushed 
by  a  weak  spiral  spring.  Its  knees  were  at 
the  level  of  the  floor,  when,  with  a  quick  upward 
impulse,  like  the  silent  leaping  of  a  flame,  it 
grasped  the  cue  with  both  hands,  drew  up  its 
body,  and  took  the  tip  in  its  horrible  yellow 
teeth.  To  this  it  clung  with  a  seeming  frenzy, 
grimacing  ghastly,  surging  and  plunging  from 
side  to  side  in  its  efforts  to  disengage  its  property 
from  the  beam,  but  uttering  no  sound.  It  was 
like  a  corpse  artificially  convulsed  by  means  of  a 
galvanic  battery.  The  contrast  between  its 
superhuman  activity  and  its  silence  was  no  less 
than  hideous! 


THE  NIGHT-DOINGS  AT  "DEADMAN*S»      219 

Mr.  Beeson  cowered  in  his  bed.  The  swarthy 
little  gentleman  uncrossed  his  legs,  beat  an  impa 
tient  tattoo  with  the  toe  of  his  boot,  and  con 
sulted  a  heavy  gold  watch.  The  old  man  sat 
erect,  and  quietly  laid  hold  of  the  revolver. 

Bang ! 

Like  a  body  cut  from  the  gallows  the  Chinaman 
plumped  into  the  black  hole  below,  carrying  his 
tail  in  his  teeth.  The  trapdoor  turned  over, 
shutting  down  with  a  snap.  The  little  gentleman 
from  San  Francisco  sprang  nimbly  from  his 
perch,  caught  something  in  the  air  with  his  hat, 
as  a  boy  catches  a  butterfly,  and  vanished  into 
the  chimney  as  if  drawn  up  by  suction. 

From  away  somewhere  in  the  outer  darkness 
floated  in  through  the  open  door  a  faint,  far  cry 
— a  long,  sobbing  wail,  as  of  a  child  death- 
strangled  in  the  desert,  or  a  lost  soul  borne  away 
by  the  Adversary.  It  may  have  been  the  coyote. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  following  spring  a  party 
of  miners,  on  their  way  to  new  diggings,  passed 
along  the  Gulch,  and  straying  through  the  de 
serted  shanties,  found  in  one  of  them  the  body 
of  Hiram  Beeson,  stretched  upon  a  bunk,  with  a 
bullet  hole  through  the  heart.  The  ball  had 
evidently  been  fired  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room,  for  in  one  of  the  oaken  beams  overhead 
was  a  shallow  blue  dint,  where  it  had  struck  a 
hard  knot  and  been  deflected  downward  to  the 


$20  CAN  SUCff  THINGS 

breast  of  its  victim.  Strongly  attached  to  the 
same  beam  was  what  appeared  to  be  an  end  of  a 
rope  of  braided  horsehair,  which  had  been  cut  by 
the  bullet  in  its  passage  to  the  knot.  Nothing 
else  of  interest  was  noted,  excepting  a  suit  of 
moldy  and  incongruous  clothing,  several  articles 
of  which  were  afterward  identified  by  positive 
witnesses  as  those  in  which  certain  deceased 
citizens  of  Deadman's  had  been  buried  years 
before.  But  it  is  not  easy  to  understand  how 
that  could  be,  unless,  indeed,  the  garments  had 
been  worn  as  a  disguise  by  Death  himself — which 
is  hardly  credible. 


THE  WIDOWER  TURMORE. 

THE  circumstances  under  which  Joram  Tur- 
more  became  a  widower  have  never  been  popu 
larly  understood.  I  know  them,  naturally,  for  I 
am  Joram  Turmore;  and  my  wife,  the  late  Eliza 
beth  Mary  Turmore,  is  by  no  means  ignorant  of 
them ;  but  although  she  doubtless  relates  them, 
yet  they  remain  a  secret,  for  not  a  soul  ever 
believed  her. 

When  I  married  Elizabeth  Mary  Johnin  she 
was  very  wealthy,  otherwise  I  could  hardly  have 
afforded  to  marry,  for  I  had  not  a  cent,  and 
Heaven  had  not  put  into  my  heart  any  intention 
to  earn  one.  As  related  elsewhere  ("Lives  of  the 
Gods,"  Beecroft,  San  Jurasco)  I  held  the  Pro 
fessorship  of  Cats  in  the  University  of  Gray- 
maulkin,  and  scholastic  pursuits  had  unfitted  me 
for  the  heat  and  burden  of  business  or  labor. 
Moreover,  I  could  not  forget  that  I  was  a  Tur 
more — a  member  of  a  family  whose  motto  from 
the  time  of  William  of  Normandy  has  been 
Laborare  est  errare.  The  only  known  infraction 
of  the  sacred  family  tradition  occurred  when  Sir 
Aldebaran  Turmore  de  Peters-Turmore,  an  illus 
trious  master  burglar  of  the  seventeenth  century, 

Ml 


222  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

personally  assisted  at  a  difficult  operation  under 
taken  by  some  of  his  workmen.  That  blot  upon 
our  escutcheon  cannot  be  contemplated  without 
the  most  poignant  mortification. 

My  incumbency  of  the  Chair  of  Cats"  in  the 
Graymaulkin  University  had  not,  of  course,  been 
marked  by  any  instance  of  mean  industry.  There 
had  never,  at  any  one  time,  been  more  than  two 
students  of  Felinology,  and  by  merely  repeating 
the  manuscript  lectures  of  my  predecessor,  which 
I  had  found  among  his  effects  (he  died  at  sea  on 
his  way  to  Malta),  I  could  sufficiently  sate  their 
famine  for  knowledge  without  really  earning  even 
the  distinction  which  served  in  place  of  salary. 

Naturally,  under  the  straitened  circumstances, 
I  regarded  Elizabeth  Mary  as  a  kind  of  special 
Providence.  She  unwisely  refused  to  share  her 
fortune  with  me,  but  for  that  I  cared  nothing; 
for,  although  by  the  laws  of  that  country  (as  is 
well  known)  a  wife  has  control  of  her  separate 
property  during  her  life,  it  passes  to  the  husband 
at  her  death ;  nor  can  she  dispose  of  it  otherwise 
by  will.  The  mortality  among  wives  is  consider 
able,  but  not  excessive. 

Having  married  Elizabeth  Mary,  and,  as  it 
were,  ennobled  her  by  making  her  a  Turmore,  I 
felt  that  the  manner  of  her  death  ought,  in  some 
sense,  to  match  her  social  distinction.  If  I  should 
remove  her  by  any  of  the  ordinary  marital 
methods  I  should  incur  a  just  reproach,  as  one 


WIDOWER  TURMORE.  22$ 

destitute  of  a  proper  family  pride.  Yet  I  could 
not  hit  upon  a  suitable  plan. 

In  this  emergency  I  decided  to  consult  the 
Turmore  archives,  a  priceless  collection  of  docu 
ments,  comprising  the  records  of  the  family  from 
the  time  of  its  founder  in  the  seventh  century  of 
our  era.  I  knew  that  among  these  sacred  muni 
ments  I  should  find  detailed  accounts  of  all  the 
principal  murders  committed  by  my  sainted 
ancestors  for  forty  generations.  From  that  mass 
of  papers  I  could  hardly  fail  to  derive  the  most 
valuable  suggestions. 

The  collection  contained  also  most  interesting 
relics.  There  were  patents  of  nobility  granted  to 
my  forefathers  for  daring  and  ingenious  removals 
of  pretenders  to  thrones,  or  occupants  of  them ; 
stars,  crosses,  and  other  decorations  attesting 
services  of  the  most  secret  and  unmentionable 
character;  miscellaneous  gifts  from  the  earth's 
greatest  and  best,  representing  an  intrinsic  money 
value  beyond  computation — robes,  jewels,  swords 
of  honor,  and  every  kind  of  "testimonials  of 
esteem";  a  king's  skull  fashioned  into  a  wine 
cup ;  the  title  deeds  to  vast  estates,  long  alienated 
by  confiscation,  sale,  or  abandonment ;  an  illumi 
nated  breviary  that  had  belonged  to  Sir  Aldebaran 
Turmore  de  Peters-Turmore  of  accursed  mem 
ory  ;  embalmed  ears  of  several  of  the  family's  most 
renowned  enemies ;  the  small  intestine  of  a  certain 
unworthy  Italian  statesman  inimical  to  Turmores, 


224  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

which,  twisted  into  a  jumping  rope,  had  served 
the  youth  of  six  kindred  generations — mementos 
and  souvenirs  precious  beyond  the  estimates  of 
imagination  and  the  powers  of  expression,  but  by 
the  sacred  mandates  of  tradition  and  sentiment 
forever  inalienable  by  sale  or  gift. 

As  the  head  of  the  family  I  was  custodian  of  all 
these  priceless  heirlooms,  and  for  their  safe  keep 
ing  I  had  constructed  in  the  basement  of  my 
dwelling  a  strong-room  of  massive  masonry, 
whose  solid  stone  walls  and  single  iron  door  could 
defy  alike  the  earthquake's  shock,  the  tireless 
assaults  of  Time,  and  Cupidity's  unholy  hand. 

To  this  thesaurus  of  the  soul,  redolent  of  senti 
ment  and  tenderness,  and  rich  in  suggestions  of 
crime,  I  now  repaired  for  hints  upon  assassina 
tion.  To  my  unspeakable  astonishment  and 
grief  I  found  it  empty !  Every  shelf,  every  chest, 
every  coffer  had  been  rifled.  Of  that  unique  and 
incomparable  collection  not  a  vestige  remained ! 
Yet,  I  satisfied  myself  that  until  I  had  myself 
unlocked  the  massive  metal  door,  not  a  bolt  nor 
bar  had  been  disturbed,  and  the  seals  upon  the 
lock  had  been  intact. 

I  passed  the  night  in  alternate  lamentation  and 
research,  equally  fruitless;  the  mystery  was  im 
penetrable  to  conjecture,  the  pain  invincible  to 
balm.  But  never  once  throughout  that  dreadful 
night  did  my  firm  spirit  relinquish  its  high  design 
against  Elizabeth  Mary,  and  daybreak  found  me 


WIDOWER  TURMORE.  225 

more  resolute  than  before  to  harvest  the  fruits  of 
my  marriage.  My  great  loss  seemed  but  to  bring 
me  into  nearer  spiritual  relations  with  my  dead 
ancestors,  and  to  lay  upon  me  a  new  and  more 
inevitable  obligation  to  prove  myself  obedient  to 
the  suasion  that  spoke  in  every  globule  of  my 
blood. 

My  plan  of  action  was  soon  formed,  and  pro 
curing  a  stout  cord  I  entered  my  wife's  bedroom, 
finding  her,  as  I  expected,  in  a  sound  sleep. 
Before  she  was  awake,  I  had  her  bound  fast,  hand 
and  foot.  She  was  greatly  surprised  and  pained, 
but  heedless  of  her  remonstrances,  delivered  in  a 
high  key,  I  carried  her  into  the  now  rifled  strong 
room,  which  I  had  never  suffered  her  to  enter,  and 
of  whose  treasures  I  had  not  apprised  her.  Seat 
ing  her,  still  bound,  in  an  angle  of  the  wall,  I 
passed  the  next  two  days  and  nights  in  conveying 
bricks  and  mortar  to  the  spot,  and  on  the  morning 
of  the  third  day  had  her  securely  walled  in,  from 
floor  to  ceiling.  All  this  time  I  gave  no  further 
heed  to  her  pleas  for  mercy  than  (on  her  assurance 
of  non-resistance,  which  I  am  bound  to  say  she 
honorably  observed)  to  grant  her  the  freedom  of 
her  limbs.  The  space  allowed  her  was  about  four 
feet  by  six.  As  I  inserted  the  last  bricks  of  the 
top  course,  in  contact  with  the  ceiling  of  the 
strong-room,  she  bade  me  farewell  with  what  I 
deemed  the  composure  of  despair,  and  I  rested 
from  my  work,  feeling  that  I  had  faithfully 


226  CAN   SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

observed  the  traditions  of  an  ancient  and  illustri 
ous  family.  My  only  bitter  reflection,  so  far  as 
my  own  conduct  was  concerned,  came  of  the 
consciousness  that  in  the  performance  of  my 
design  I  had  labored;  but  that  no  living  soul 
would  ever  know. 

After  a  night's  rest  I  went  to  the  Judge  of  the 
Court  of  Successions  and  Inheritances,  and  made 
a  true  and  sworn  relation  of  all  that  I  had  done — 
except  that  I  ascribed  to  a  servant  the  manual 
labor  of  building  the  wall.  His  honor  appointed 
a  court  commissioner,  who  made  a  careful  exam 
ination  of  the  work,  and  upon  his  report  Eliza 
beth  Mary  Turmore  was,  at  the  end  of  a  week, 
formally  pronounced  dead.  By  due  process  of 
law  I  was  put  into  possession  of  her  estate,  and 
although  that  was  not  by  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  dollars  as  valuable  as  my  lost  treasures,  it 
raised  me  from  poverty  to  affluence  and  brought 
me  the  respect  of  the  great  and  good. 

Some  six  months  after  these  events  strange 
rumors  reached  me  that  the  ghost  of  my  deceased 
wife  had  been  seen  in  various  places  about  the 
country,  but  always  at  a  considerable  distance 
from  Graymaulkin.  These  rumors,  which  I  was 
unable  to  trace  to  any  authentic  source,  differed 
widely  in  many  particulars,  but  were  alike  in 
ascribing  to  the  apparition  a  certain  high  degree 
of  apparent  worldly  prosperity  combined  with  an 
audacity  most  uncommon  in  ghosts.  Not  only 


WIDOWER  TURMORE.  227 

was  the  spirit  attired  in  the  most  costly  raiment, 
but  it  walked  at  noonday,  and  even  drove!  I 
was  inexpressibly  annoyed  by  these  reports,  and 
thinking  there  might  be  something  more  than 
superstition  in  the  popular  belief  that  only  the 
spirits  of  the  unburied  dead  still  walk  the  earth, 
I  took  some  workmen  equipped  with  picks  and 
crowbars  into  the  now  long  unentered  strong 
room,  and  ordered  them  to  demolish  the  brick 
wall  that  I  had  built  about  the  partner  of  my 
joys.  I  was  resolved  to  give  the  body  of  Eliza 
beth  Mary  such  burial  as  I  thought  her  immortal 
part  might  be  willing  to  accept  as  an  equivalent 
for  the  privilege  of  ranging  at  will  among  the 
haunts  of  the  living.  In  a  few  minutes  we  had 
broken  down  the  wall,  and,  thrusting  a  lamp 
through  the  breach,  I  looked  in.  Nothing!  Not 
a  bone,  not  a  lock  of  hair,  not  a  shred  of  clothing 
— the  narrow  space  which,  upon  my  affidavit,  had 
been  legally  declared  to  hold  all  that  was  mortal 
of  the  late  Mrs.  Turmore  was  absolutely  empty! 
This  amazing  disclosure,  coming  upon  a  mind 
already  overwrought  with  too  much  of  mystery 
and  excitement,  was  more  than  I  could  bear.  I 
shrieked  aloud  and  fell  in  a  fit.  For  months 
afterward  I  lay  between  life  and  death,  fevered 
and  delirious;  nor  did  I  recover  until  my  physi 
cian  had  had  the  providence  to  take  a  case  of  valu 
able  jewels  from  my  safe  and  leave  the  country. 
The  next  summer  I  had  occasion  to  visit  my 


228  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE* 

wine  cellar,  in  one  corner  of  which  I  had  built  the 
now  long  disused  strong-room.  In  moving  a  cask 
of  Madeira  I  struck  it  with  considerable  force 
against  the  partition  wall,  and  was  surprised  to 
observe  that  it  displaced  two  large  square  stones 
forming  a  part  of  the  wall.  Applying  my  hands 
to  these,  I  easily  pushed  them  out  of  the  wall 
entirely,  and  looking  through  saw  that  they  had 
fallen  into  the  niche  in  which  I  had  immured  my 
lamented  wife;  facing  the  opening  which  their 
fall  left,  and  at  a  distance  of  four  feet,  was  the 
brickwork  which  my  own  hands  had  made  for 
that  unfortunate  gentlewoman's  restraint.  At 
this  significant  revelation  I  began  a  search  of  the 
wine  cellar.  Behind  a  row  of  casks  I  found  four 
historically  interesting  but  intrinsically  valueless 
objects : 

First,  the  mildewed  remains  of  a  ducal  robe  of 
state  (Florentine)  of  the  eleventh  century;  sec 
ond,  an  illuminated  vellum  breviary  with  the 
name  of  Sir  Aldebaran  Turmore  de  Peters- 
Turmore  inscribed  in  colors  on  the  title  page; 
third,  a  human  skull  fashioned  into  a  drinking 
cup  and  deeply  stained  with  wine;  fourth,  the 
iron  cross  of  a  Knight  Commander  of  the  Imperial 
Austrian  Order  of  Assassins  by  Poison. 

That  was  all — not  an  object  having  commer 
cial  value,  no  papers — nothing.  But  this  was 
enough  to  clear  up  the  mystery  of  the  strong 
room.  My  wife  had  early  divined  the  existence 


WIDOWER  TURMORE.  229 

and  purpose  of  that  apartment,  and,  with  a  skill 
amounting  to  genius,  had  effected  an  entrance  by 
loosening  the  two  stones  in  the  wall.  Through 
that  opening  she  had,  at  various  times,  abstracted 
the  entire  collection,  which  doubtless  she  had 
succeeded  in  converting  into  coin  of  the  realm. 
When,  with  an  unconscious  justice  which  deprives 
me  of  all  satisfaction  in  the  memory,  I  decided  to 
build  her  into  the  wall,  by  some  malign  fatality 
I  selected  that  part  of  it  in  which  were  these 
movable  stones,  and  doubtless  before  I  had  fairly 
finished  my  bricklaying  she  had  removed  them, 
and  slipping  through  into  the  wine  cellar,  replaced 
them  as  they  were  originally  laid.  From  the 
cellar  she  had  easily  escaped  unobserved,  to  enjoy 
her  infamous  gains  in  distant  parts.  I  have 
endeavored  to  procure  a  warrant,  but  the  Lord 
High  Baron  of  the  Court  of  Arrest  and  Convic 
tion  reminds  me  that  she  is  legally  dead,  and  says 
my  only  course  is  to  go  before  the  Master  in 
Cadavery  and  move  for  a  writ  of  disinterment  and 
revival.  So  it  looks  as  if  I  must  suffer  without 
redress  this  great  wrong  at  the  hands  of  a  woman 
devoid  alike  of  principle  and  shame. 


GEORGE  THURSTON. 

THREE   EPISODES    IN  THE   LIFE    OF  A 
BRAVE   MAN. 

GEORGE  THURSTON  was  a  first  lieutenant  and 
aid-de-camp  on  the  staff  of  Colonel  Brough, 
commanding  a  Federal  brigade.  Colonel  Brough 
was  only  temporarily  in  command,  as  senior 
colonel,  the  brigadier  general  having  been  se 
verely  wounded  and  granted  a  leave  of  absence  to 
recover.  Lieutenant  Thurston  was,  I  believe,  of 
Colonel  Brough's  regiment,  to  which,  with  his 
chief,  he  would  naturally  have  been  relegated  had 
he  lived  till  our  brigade  commander's  recovery. 
The  aid  whose  place  Thurston  took  had  been 
killed  in  battle ;  Thurston's  advent  among  us  was 
the  only  change  in  the  personnel  of  our  staff  con 
sequent  upon  the  change  in  commanders.  We 
did  not  like  him;  he  was  unsocial.  This,  how 
ever,  was  more  observed  by  others  than  by  me. 
Whether  in  camp  or  on  the  march,  in  barracks,  in 
tents  or  en  bivouac,  my  duties  as  topographical 
engineer  kept  me  working  like  a  beaver — all  day 
in  the  saddle  and  half  the  night  at  my  drawing 
table,  platting  my  surveys.  It  was  hazardous 

231 


232  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

work;  the  nearer  to  the  enemy's  lines  I  could 
penetrate,  the  more  valuable  were  my  field  notes 
and  the  resulting  maps.  It  was  a  business  in 
which  the  lives  of  men  counted  as  nothing  against 
the  chance  of  defining  a  road  or  sketching  a 
bridge.  Whole  squadrons  of  cavalry  escort  had 
sometimes  to  be  sent  thundering  against  a  pow 
erful  infantry  outpost  in  order  that  the  brief  time 
between  the  charge  and  the  inevitable  retreat 
might  be  utilized  in  sounding  a  ford  or  determin 
ing  the  point  of  intersection  of  two  turnpikes. 

In  some  of  the  dark  corners  of  England  and 
Wales  they  have  an  immemorial  custom  of  "  beat 
ing  the  bounds"  of  the  parish.  On  a  certain  day 
of  the  year  the  whole  population  turns  out  and 
travels  in  procession  from  one  landmark  to  another 
on  the  boundary  line.  At  the  most  important 
points  lads  are  soundly  beaten  with  rods  to 
make  them  remember  the  place  in  after  life. 
They  become  authorities.  Our  frequent  engage 
ments  with  the  Confederate  outposts,  patrols,  and 
scouting  parties  had,  incidentally,  the  same  edu 
cating  value ;  they  fixed  in  my  memory  a  vivid 
and  apparently  imperishable  picture  of  the  locality 
— a  picture  serving  instead  of  accurate  field  notes, 
which,  indeed,  it  was  not  always  convenient  to 
take,  with  carbines  cracking,  sabers  clashing,  and 
horses  plunging  all  about.  These  spirited  en 
counters  were  observations  entered  in  red. 

One  morning  as  I  set  out  at  the  head  of  my 


GEORGE  THUKSTON.  233 

escort  on  an  expedition  of  more  than  the  usual 
hazard,  Lieutenant  Thurston  rode  up  alongside  of 
me  and  asked  if  I  had  any  objection  to  his  accom 
panying  me,  the  colonel  commanding  having 
given  him  permission. 

"  None  whatever,"  I  replied  rather  gruffly, 
"  but  in  what  capacity  will  you  go  ?  You  are  not 
a  topographical  engineer,  and  Captain  Burling 
commands  my  escort." 

"  I  will  go  as  a  spectator,"  he  said.  Removing 
his  sword-belt  and  taking  the  pistols  from  his 
holsters  he  handed  them  to  his  servant,  who  took 
them  back  to  headquarters.  I  realized  the  brutal 
ity  of  my  remark,  but  not  clearly  seeing  my  way 
to  an  apology,  said  nothing.  That  afternoon  we 
encountered  a  whole  regiment  of  the  enemy's 
cavalry  in  line,  and  a  field  piece  that  dominated  a 
straight  mile  of  the  turnpike  by  which  we  had 
approached.  We  fought  deployed  in  the  woods 
on  both  sides,  but  Thurston  remained  in  the 
center  of  the  road,  which  at  intervals  of  a  few 
seconds  was  swept  by  gusts  of  grape  and  canister 
that  tore  the  air  wide  open  as  they  passed.  He 
had  dropped  the  rein  on  the  neck  of  his  horse 
and  sat  bolt  upright  in  the  saddle,  with  folded 
arms.  Soon  he  was  down,  his  horse  torn 
to  pieces.  From  the  side  of  the  road,  my 
pencil  and  field  book  idle,  my  duty  forgotten,  I 
watched  him  slowly  disengaging  himself  from  the 
wreck  and  rising.  At  that  instant,  the  cannon 


a  34  CAN  sue  PI  THINGS 

having  ceased  firing,  a  burly  Confederate  trooper 
on  a  spirited  horse  dashed  like  a  thunderbolt 
down  the  road  with  drawn  saber.  Thurston 
saw  him  coming,  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
height,  and  again  folded  his  arms.  He  was 
too  brave  to  retreat  before  the  word,  and  my 
uncivil  words  had  disarmed  him.  He  was  a 
spectator.  Another  moment  and  he  would  have 
been  split  like  a  mackerel,  but  a  blessed  bullet 
tumbled  his  assailant  into  the  dusty  road  so  near 
that  the  impetus  sent  the  body  rolling  to  Thurs- 
ton's  feet.  That  evening,  while  platting  my 
hasty  survey,  I  found  time  to  frame  an  apology, 
which  I  think  took  the  rude,  primitive  form  of  a 
confession  that  I  had  spoken  like  a  malicious 
idiot. 

A  few  weeks  later  a  portion  of  our  army  made 
an  assault  upon  the  enemy's  left.  The  attack, 
which  was  made  upon  an  unknown  position  and 
across  unfamiliar  ground,  was  led  by  our  brigade. 
The  ground  was  so  broken  and  the  underbrush  so 
thick  that  all  mounted  officers  and  men  were  com 
pelled  to  fight  on  foot — our  brigade  commander 
and  his  staff  included.  In  the  metie  Thurston  got 
parted  from  the  rest  of  us,  and  we  found  him, 
horribly  wounded,  only  when  we  had  carried  the 
enemy's  last  defense.  He  was  some  months  in 
the  hospital  at  Nashville,  Tenn.,  but  finally  re 
joined  us.  He  said  little  about  his  misadventure, 
except  that  he  had  been  bewildered  and  had 


GEORGE  TttURSTOtf.  235 

strayed  into  the  enemy's  lines  and  been  shot 
down ;  but  from  one  of  his  captors,  whom  we  in 
turn  had  captured,  we  learned  the  particulars. 
"  He  came  walking  right  upon  us  as  we  lay  in 
line,"  said  this  man.  "  A  whole  company  of  us 
instantly  sprang  up  and  leveled  our  rifles  at  his 
breast,  some  of  them  almost  touching  him. 
1  Throw  down  that  sword  and  surrender,  you 

d d  Yank ! '  shouted  someone  in  authority. 

The  fellow  ran  his  eyes  along  the  line  of  gun  bar 
rels,  folded  his  arms  across  his  breast,  his  right 
hand  still  clutching  his  sword,  and  deliberately 
replied,  4 1  will  not.'  If  we  had  all  fired  he  would 
have  been  torn  to  shreds.  Some  of  us  didn't. 
I  didn't  for  one ;  nothing  could  have  induced 
me." 

When  one  is  tranquilly  looking  death  in  the  eye 
and  refusing  him  any  concession,  one  naturally 
has  a  good  opinion  of  one's  self.  I  don't  know  if 
it  was  this  feeling  that  in  Thurston  found  ex 
pression  in  a  stiffish  attitude  and  folded  arms ;  at 
the  mess  table  one  day,  in  his  absence,  another 
explanation  was  suggested  by  our  provost-marshal, 
an  irreclaimable  stammerer  when  the  wine  was  in  : 
"  It's  h — is  w — ay  of  m-m-mastering  a  c-c-con- 
stit-t-tutional  t-tendency  to  r — un  aw — ay." 

"  What !  "  I  flamed  out,  indignantly  rising ; 
"you  intimate  that  Thurston  is  a  coward — and 
in  his  absence?" 

"  If  he  w — ere  a  cow-wow-ard  h — e  w — ouldn't 


236  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

t-try  to  m-m-master  it ;  and  if  he  w — ere  p-present 
I  w — ouldn't  d-d-dare  to  d-d-discuss  it,"  was  the 
mollifying  reply. 

This  intrepid  man,  George  Thurston,  died  an 
ignoble  death.  The  brigade  was  in  camp,  with 
headquarters  in  a  grove  of  immense  trees.  To 
an  upper  branch  of  one  of  these  a  venturesome 
climber  had  attached  the  two  ends  of  a  long  rope 
and  made  a  swing  with  a  length  of  not  less  than 
one  hundred  feet.  Plunging  downward  from  a 
height  of  fifty  feet,  along  the  arc  of  a  circle  with 
such  a  radius,  and  soaring  to  an  equal  altitude, 
pausing  for  one  breathless  instant,  then  sweeping 
dizzily  backward — no  one  who  has  not  tried  it  can 
conceive  the  terrors  of  such  sport  to  the  novice. 
Thurston  came  out  of  his  tent  one  day  and 
asked  for  instruction  in  the  mystery  of  propelling 
the  swing — the  art  of  rising  and  sitting  on  which 
every  boy  has  mastered.  In  a  few  moments  he 
had  acquired  the  trick,  and  was  swinging  higher 
than  the  most  experienced  of  us  had  dared.  We 
shuddered  to  look  at  his  fearful  flights. 

"  St-t-top  him,"  said  the  provost-marshal,  snail- 
ing  lazily  along  from  the  mess-tent,  where  he  had 
been  lunching;  "h — e  d-doesn't  know  that  if 
h — e  g-g-goes  c-clear  over  h — e'll  w — ind  up  the 
sw — ing." 

With  such  energy  was  that  strong  man  cannon 
ading  himself  through  the  air  that  at  each  ex 
tremity  of  his  increasing  arc  his  body,  standing 


GEORGE  THURSTON.  *37 

in  the  swing,  was  almost  horizontal.  Should  he 
once  pass  above  the  level  of  the  rope's  attach 
ment  he  would  be  lost ;  the  rope  would  slacken 
and  he  would  fall  vertically  to  a  point  as  far 
below  as  he  had  gone  above,  and  then  the  sudden 
tension  of  the  rope  would  wrest  it  from  his  hands. 
All  saw  the  peril — all  cried  out  to  him  to  desist, 
and  gesticulated  at  him  as,  indistinct  and  with  a 
noise  like  the  rush  of  a  cannon  shot  in  flight,  he 
swept  past  us  through  the  lower  reaches  of  his 
hideous  oscillation.  A  woman  standing  at  a  little 
distance  away  fainted  and  fell  unobserved.  Men 
from  the  camp  of  a  regiment  near  by  ran  in 
crowds  to  see,  all  shouting.  Suddenly,  as  Thurs- 
ton  was  on  his  upward  curve,  the  shouts  all 
ceased. 

Thurston  and  the  swing  had  parted — that  is  all 
that  can  be  known;  both  hands  at  once  had 
released  the  rope.  The  impetus  of  the  light 
swing  exhausted,  it  was  falling  back ;  the  man's 
momentum  was  carrying  him,  almost  erect,  up 
ward  and  forward,  no  longer  in  an  arc,  but  with 
an  outward  curve.  It  could  have  been  but  an 
instant,  yet  it  seemed  an  age.  I  cried  out,  or 
thought  I  cried  out :  "  My  God,  will  he  never 
stop  going  up  ?  "  He  passed  close  to  the  branch 
of  a  tree.  I  remember  a  feeling  of  delight  as  I 
thought  he  would  clutch  it  and  save  himself.  I 
speculated  on  the  possibility  of  it  sustaining  his 
weight.  He  passed  above  it,  and  from  my  point 


238  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

of  view  was  sharply  outlined  against  the  blue. 
At  this  distance  of  twenty  years  I  can  distinctly 
recall  that  image  of  a  man  in  the  sky,  its  head 
erect,  its  feet  close  together,  its  hands— I  do  not 
see  its  hands.  All  at  once,  with  astonishing  sud 
denness  and  rapidity,  it  turns  clear  over  and 
pitches  downward.  There  is  another  cry  from 
the  crowd,  which  has  rushed  instinctively  forward. 
The  man  has  become  merely  a  whirling  object, 
mostly  legs.  Then  there  is  an  indescribable 
sound — the  sound  of  an  impact  that  shakes  the 
earth,  and  these  men,  familiar  with  death  in  its 
most  awful  aspects,  turn  sick.  Many  walk  un 
steadily  away  from  the  spot ;  others  support 
themselves  against  the  trunks  of  trees  or  sit  at 
the  roots.  Death  has  taken  an  unfair  advantage  ; 
he  has  struck  with  an  unfamiliar  weapon ;  he  has 
executed  a  new  and  disquieting  stratagem.  We 
did  not  know  he  had  so  ghastly  resources,  capaci 
ties  of  terror  so  dismal. 

Thurston's  body  lay  on  its  back.  One  leg,  bent 
beneath,  was  broken  above  the  knee  and  the  bone 
driven  into  the  earth.  The  abdomen  had  burst 
and  the  bowels  protruded.  The  neck  was  broken. 

The  arms  were  folded  tightly  across  the  breast. 


JOHN    BARTINE'S   WATCH. 

A  STORY  WRITTEN  FROM  NOTES  OF  A  PHYSICIAN. 

"  THE  exact  time  ?  Good  God !  my  friend,  why 
do  you  insist  ?  One  would  think — but  what  does 
it  matter;  it  is  easily  bedtime — isn't  that  near 
enough?  But,  here,  if  you  must  set  your  watch, 
take  mine  and  see  for  yourself." 

With  that  he  detached  his  watch — a  tremen 
dously  heavy,  old-fashioned  one — from  the  chain, 
and  handed  it  to  me;  then  turned  away,  and 
walking  across  the  room  to  a  shelf  of  books, 
began  an  examination  of  their  backs.  His  agita 
tion  and  evident  distress  surprised  me ;  they 
appeared  altogether  reasonless.  Having  set  my 
watch  by  his,  I  stepped  over  to  where  he  stood 
and  said,  "  Thank  you." 

As  he  took  his  watch  and  reattached  it  to  the 
guard  I  observed  that  his  hands  were  unsteady. 
A  slight  pallor  had  come  into  his  face.  With  a 
tact  upon  which  I  greatly  prided  myself,  I  saun 
tered  carelessly  to  the  sideboard  and  took  some 
brandy  and  water ;  then,  begging  his  pardon  for 
my  thoughtlessness,  asked  him  to  have  some,  and 
went  back  to  my  seat  by  the  fire,  leaving  him  to 

239 


240  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BEf 

help  himself,  as  was  our  custom.  He  did  so  and 
presently  joined  me  at  the  hearth,  as  tranquil  as 
ever. 

This  odd  little  incident  occurred  in  my  apart 
ment,  where  John  Bartine  was  passing  an  evening. 
We  had  dined  together  at  the  club,  had  come 
home  in  a  hack,  and — in  short,  everything  had 
been  done  in  the  most  prosaic  way;  and  why 
John  Bartine  should  break  in  upon  the  natural 
and  established  order  of  things  to  make  himself 
spectacular  with  a  display  of  emotion,  apparently 
for  his  own  entertainment,  I  could  nowise  under 
stand.  The  more  I  thought  of  it,  while  his 
brilliant  conversational  gifts  were  commending 
themselves  to  my  inattention,  the  more  curious  I 
grew,  and  of  course  had  no  difficulty  in  persuading 
myself  that  my  curiosity  was  friendly  solicitude. 
That  is  the  disguise  that  curiosity  commonly 
assumes  to  evade  resentment.  So  I  ruined  one 
of  the  finest  sentences  of  his  monologue  by  cut 
ting  it  short  without  ceremony. 

"  John  Bartine,"  I  said,  "  you  must  try  to  for 
give  me  if  I  am  wrong,  but  with  the  light  that  I 
have  at  present  I  cannot  concede  your  right  to  go 
all  to  pieces  when  asked  the  time  o*  night.  I 
cannot  admit  that  it  is  proper  to  experience  a 
mysterious  reluctance  to  look  your  own  watch  in 
the  face  and  to  cherish  in  my  presence,  without 
explanation,  painful  emotions  which  are  denied  to 
me,  and  which  are  none  of  my  business." 


JOHN  BAR  TINE'S    WATCH.  241 

To  this  ridiculous  speech  Bartine  made  no  im 
mediate  reply,  but  sat  looking  gravely  into  the 
fire.  Fearing  that  I  had  offended,  I  was  about 
to  apologize  and  beg  him  to  think  no  more  about 
the  matter,  when,  looking  me  calmly  in  the  eyes, 
he  said : 

"  My  dear  fellow,  the  levity  of  your  manner 
does  not  at  all  disguise  the  hideous  impudence  of 
your  demand  ;  but  happily  I  had  already  decided 
to  tell  you  what  you  wish  to  know,  and  no  mani 
festation  of  your  unworthiness  to  hear  it  shall 
alter  my  decision.  Be  good  enough  to  persuade 
me  to  have  a  fresh  cigar  and  you  shall  hear  all 
about  the  matter. 

"  This  watch,"  he  said,  "had  been  in  my  family 
for  three  generations  before  it  fell  to  me.  Its 
original  owner,  for  whom  it  was  made,  was  my 
great-grandfather,  Bramwell  Olcott  Bartine,  a 
wealthy  planter  of  Colonial  Virginia,  and  as 
stanch  a  Tory  as  ever  lay  awake  nights  con 
triving  new  kinds  of  maledictions  for  the  head  of 
Mr.  Washington,  and  new  methods  of  aiding  and 
abetting  good  King  George.  One  day  this  worthy 
gentleman  had  the  deep  misfortune  to  perform 
for  his  cause  a  service  of  capital  importance  which 
was  not  recognized  by  those  who  suffered  its  dis 
advantages  as  legitimate.  It  does  not  matter 
what  it  was,  but  among  its  minor  consequences 
was  my  excellent  ancestor's  arrest  one  night  in 
his  own  house  by  a  party  of  Mr.  Washington's 


*42  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

rebels.  He  was  permitted  to  say  farewell  to  his 
weeping  family,  and  was  then  marched  away  into 
the  darkness,  which  swallowed  him  up  forever. 
Not  the  slenderest  clew  to  his  fate  was  ever  found. 
After  the  war  the  most  diligent  inquiry  and  the 
offer  of  large  rewards  failed  to  turn  up  any  of  his 
captors  or  any  fact  concerning  him.  He  had  dis 
appeared,  and  that  was  all." 

Something  in  John  Bartine's  manner  that  was 
not  in  his  words — I  hardly  knew  what  it  was— 
prompted  me  to  ask : 

"  What  is  your  view  of  the  matter — of  the 
justice  of  it  ?  " 

"  My  view  of  it,"  he  flamed  out,  bringing  his 
clenched  hand  down  upon  the  table  as  if  he  had 
been  in  a  public  house  dicing  with  blackguards — 
"  my  view  of  it  is  that  it  was  a  characteristically 

dastardly  assassination  by  that  d d  traitor, 

Washington,  and  his  ragamuffin  rebels  !  " 

For  some  minutes  nothing  was  said  :  Bartine 
was  recovering  his  temper,  and  I  waited.  Then 
I  said : 

"  Was  that  all  ?  " 

"  No — there  was  something  else.  A  few  weeks 
after  my  great-grandfather's  arrest  his  watch  was 
found  lying  on  the  porch  at  the  front  door  of  his 
dwelling.  It  was  wrapped  in  a  sheet  of  letter 
paper  bearing  the  name  of  Elizabeth  Bartine,  his 
only  daughter,  my  grandmother.  I  am  wearing 
that  watch/' 


JOHN  BARTINE'S   WATCH.  243 

Bartine  paused.  His  usually  restless  black  eyes 
were  staring  fixedly  into  the  grate,  a  point  of  red 
light  in  each,  reflected  from  the  glowing  coals. 
He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  my  existence.  A 
sudden  threshing  of  the  branches  of  a  tree  out 
side  one  of  the  windows,  and  almost  at  the  same 
instant  a  rattle  of  rain  against  the  glass,  recalled 
him  to  a  sense  of  his  surroundings.  A  storm  had 
risen,  heralded  by  a  single  gust  of  wind,  and  in  a 
few  moments  the  steady  plash  of  the  water  on 
the  pavement  was  distinctly  audible.  I  hardly 
know  why  I  relate  that  incident ;  it  seemed  some 
how  to  have  a  certain  significance  and  relevancy 
which  I  am  unabled  now  to  discern.  It  at  least 
added  an  element  of  seriousness,  almost  solemnity. 
Bartine  resumed  : 

"  I  have  a  singular  feeling  toward  this  watch — 
a  kind  of  affection  for  it ;  I  like  to  have  it  about 
me,  though  partly  from  its  weight,  and  partly  for 
a  reason  that  I  shall  now  explain,  I  seldom  carry 
it.  The  reason  is  this:  Every  evening  when  I 
have  it  with  me  I  feel  an  unaccountable  desire  to 
open  and  consult  it,  even  if  I  can  think  of  no 
reason  for  wishing  to  know  the  time.  But  if  I 
yield  to  it,  the  moment  my  eyes  rest  upon  the 
dial  I  am  filled  with  a  mysterious  apprehension — 
a  sense  of  imminent  calamity.  And  this  is  the 
more  insupportable  the  nearer  it  is  to  eleven 
o'clock — by  this  watch,  no  matter  what  the  actual 
hour  may  be.  After  the  hands  have  registered 


244  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

eleven  the  desire  to  look  is  gone ;  I  am  entirely 
indifferent.  But  then  I  can  consult  the  thing  as 
often  as  I  like,  with  no  more  emotion  than  you 
feel  in  looking  at  your  own.  Naturally  I  have 
trained  myself  not  to  look  at  that  watch  in 
the  evening  before  eleven ;  nothing  could  induce 
me.  Your  insistence  this  evening  upset  me  a 
trifle.  I  felt  very  much  as  I  suppose  an  opium 
eater  might  feel  if  his  yearning  for  his  special  and 
particular  kind  of  hell  were  re-enforced  by  oppor 
tunity  and  advice. 

"  Now  that  is  my  story,  and  I  have  told  it  in 
the  interest  of  your  trumpery  science ;  but  if  on 
any  evening  hereafter  you  observe  me  wearing 
this  damnable  watch,  and  you  have  the  thought- 
fulness  to  ask  me  the  hour,  I  shall  beg  leave  to 
put  you  to  the  inconvenience  of  being  knocked 
down." 

His  humor  did  not  amuse  me.  I  could  see 
that  in  relating  his  hallucination  he  was  again 
somewhat  disturbed.  His  concluding  smile  was 
positively  ghastly,  and  his  eyes  had  resumed 
something  more  than  their  old  restlessness ;  they 
shifted  hither  and  thither  about  the  room  with 
apparent  aimlessness,  and  I  fancied  had  taken  on 
a  wild  expression,  such  as  is  sometimes  observed 
in  cases  of  dementia.  Perhaps  this  was  my  own 
imagination,  but  at  any  rate  I  was  now  persuaded 
that  my  friend  was  afflicted  with  a  most  singu 
lar  and  interesting  monomania.  Without,  I  trust. 


JOtftf  BARTINE'S    IVATCH.  *  45 

any  abatement  of  my  affectionate  solicitude  for 
him  as  a  friend,  I  began  to  regard  him  as  a  patient 
rich  in  possibilities  of  profitable  study.  Why  not  ? 
Had  he  not  described  his  delusion  in  the  interest 
of  science  ?  Ah,  poor  fellow,  he  was  doing  more 
for  science  than  he  knew :  not  only  his  story  but 
himself  was  in  evidence.  I  should  cure  him  if  I 
could,  of  course,  but  first  I  should  make  a  little 
experiment  in  psychology — nay,  the  experiment 
itself  might  be  a  step  in  his  restoration. 

"  That  is  very  frank  and  friendly  of  you,  Bar- 
tine,"  I  said  cordially,  "and  I'm  rather  proud  of 
your  confidence.  It  is  all  very  odd,  certainly. 
Do  you  mind  showing  me  the  watch?" 

He  detached  it  from  his  waistcoat,  chain  and 
all,  and  passed  it  to  me  without  a  word.  The  case 
was  of  gold,  very  thick  and  strong,  and  curiously 
engraved.  After  closely  examining  the  dial  and 
observing  that  it  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock,  I 
opened  it  at  the  back  and  was  interested  to 
observe  an  inner  case  of  ivory,  upon  which  was 
painted  a  miniature  portrait  in  that  exquisite  and 
delicate  manner  which  was  in  vogue  during  the 
eighteenth  century. 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul !  "  I  exclaimed,  experienc 
ing  the  keenest  artistic  delight — "  how  under  the 
sun  did  you  get  that  done  ?  I  thought  miniature 
painting  on  ivory  was  a  lost  art." 

"  That,"  he  replied,  gravely  smiling,  "  is  not  I ; 
it  is  my  excellent  great-grandfather,  the  late  Bram- 


246  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

well  Olcott  Bartine,  Esquire,  of  Virginia.  He  was 
younger  then  than  later — about  my  age,  in  fact. 
It  is  said  to  resemble  me ;  do  you  think  so?" 

"  Resemble  you  ?  I  should  say  so !  Barring 
the  costume,  which  I  supposed  you  to  have 
assumed  out  of  compliment  to  the  art— or  for 
vraisemblance,  so  to  say — and  the  no  mustache, 
that  face  is  yours  in  every  feature,  line,  and  ex 
pression." 

No  more  was  said  at  that  time.  Bartine  took  a 
book  from  the  table  and  began  reading.  I  heard 
outside  the  incessant  plash  of  the  rain  in  the 
street.  There  were  occasional  hurried  footfalls  on 
the  sidewalks ;  and  once  a  slower,  heavier  tread 
seemed  to  cease  at  my  door — a  policeman,  I 
thought,  seeking  shelter  in  the  doorway.  The 
boughs  of  the  trees  tapped  significantly  on  the 
window  panes,  as  if  asking  for  admittance.  I 
remember  it  all  through  these  years  and  years  of 
a  wiser,  graver  life. 

Seeing  myself  unobserved,  I  took  the  old- 
fashioned  watchkey  that  dangled  from  the  chain 
and  quickly  turned  back  the  hands  of  the  watch 
a  full  hour;  then,  closing  the  case,  I  handed  Bar- 
tine  his  property,  and  saw  him  replace  it  on  his 
person. 

"  I  think  you  said,"  I  began,  with  assumed 
carelessness,  "  that  after  eleven  the  sight  of  the 
dial  no  longer  affects  you.  As  it  is  now  nearly 
twelve  " — locking  at  my  own  timepiece — "  per- 


JOHN  BARTINES   WATCH.  247 

haps,  if  you  don't  resent  my  pursuit  of  proof,  you 
will  look  at  it  now." 

He  smiled  good-humoredly,  pulled  out  the 
watch  again,  opened  it,  and  instantly  sprang  to 
his  feet  with  a  cry  that  Heaven  has  not  had  the 
mercy  to  permit  me  to  forget !  His  eyes,  their 
blackness  strikingly  intensified  by  the  absolute 
pallor  of  his  face,  were  fixed  upon  the  watch, 
which  he  clutched  in  both  hands.  For  some  time 
he  remained  in  that  attitude  without  uttering 
another  sound ;  then,  in  a  voice  that  I  should  not 
have  recognized  as  his,  he  said : 

"  D n  you  !  it  is  two  minutes  to  eleven." 

I  was  not  unprepared  for  some  such  outbreak, 
and  without  rising  replied,  calmly  enough  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon ;  I  must  have  misread 
your  watch  in  setting  my  own  by  it." 

He  shut  the  case  with  a  sharp  snap  and  put  the 
watch  in  his  pocket.  He  looked  at  me  and  made 
an  attempt  to  smile,  but  his  lower  lip  quivered 
and  he  seemed  unable  to  close  his  mouth.  His 
hands,  also,  were  shaking,  and  he  thrust  them 
clenched  into  the  pockets  of  his  sack  coat.  The 
courageous  spirit  was  manifestly  endeavoring  to 
subdue  the  coward  body.  The  effort  was  too 
great;  he  began  to  sway  from  side  to  side,  as 
from  vertigo,  and  before  I  could  spring  from  my 
chair  to  support  him  his  knees  gave  way  and  he 
pitched  awkwardly  forward  and  fell  upon  his  face 
—dead ! 


248  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

The  post-mortem  examination  disclosed  noth 
ing;  every  organ  was  normal  and  sound.  But 
when  the  body  had  been  prepared  for  burial 
a  faint  dark  circle,  as  if  made  by  contusion,  was 
seen  to  have  developed  about  the  neck ;  at  least  I 
was  so  assured  by  several  persons  who  said  they 
saw  it,  but  of  my  own  knowledge  I  cannot  say 
if  that  was  true. 

Nor  can  I  affirm  my  knowledge  of  the  limita 
tions  of  the  principle  of  heredity.  I  do  not 
know  that  in  the  spiritual  as  in  the  temporal 
world,  natural  laws  have  no  post-facto  validity. 
Surely,  if  I  were  to  guess  at  the  fate  of  Bramwell 
Olcott  Bartine,  I  should  guess  that  he  was  hanged 
at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  that  he  had 
been  allowed  several  hours  in  which  to  prepare 
for  the  change. 

As  to  John  Bartine,  my  friend,  my  patient  for 
five  minutes,  and — Heaven  forgive  me — my  vic 
tim  for  eternity,  there  is  no  more  to  say.  He  is 
buried,  and  his  watch  with  him — I  saw  to  that. 
May  God  rest  his  soul  in  Paradise,  and  the  soul  of 
his  Virginian  ancestor,  if,  indeed,  they  are  two 
souls. 


THE  REALM  OF  THE  UNREAL. 
I. 

FOR  a  part  of  the  distance  between  Auburn  and 
Newcastle  the  road — first  on  one  side  of  a  creek 
and  then  on  the  other — occupies  the  whole  bottom 
of  the  ravine,  being  partly  cut  out  of  the  steep 
hillside,  and  partly  built  up  with  bowlders  re 
moved  from  the  creek-bed  by  the  miners.  The 
hills  are  wooded,  the  course  of  the  ravine  is  sinu 
ous.  In  a  dark  night  careful  driving  is  required 
in  order  not  to  go  off  into  the  water.  The  night 
that  I  have  in  memory  was  dark,  the  creek  a  tor 
rent,  swollen  by  a  recent  storm.  I  had  driven  up 
from  Newcastle  and  was  within  about  a  mile  from 
Auburn  in  the  darkest  and  narrowest  part  of  'the 
ravine,  looking  intently  ahead  of  my  horse  for  flie 
roadway.  Suddenly  I  saw  the  figure  of  a  man 
almost  under  the  animal's  nose,  and  reined  in 
with  a  jerk  which  came  near  setting  the  creature 
upon  its  haunches. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said;  '"1  did  not  see 
you,  sir." 

"You  could  hardly  be  expected  to  see  me," 
the  man  replied,  civilly  enough,  approaching  the 

*49 


25°  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

side  of  the  buggy ;  "  and  the  noise  of  the  creek 
prevented  my  hearing  you." 

I  at  once  recognized  the  voice,  although  five 
years  had  passed  since  I  had  heard  it.  I  was  not 
particularly  well  pleased  to  hear  it  now. 

"  You  are  Dr.  Dorrimore,  I  think,"  said  I. 

"  Yes ;  and  you  are  my  good  friend  Mr.  Man- 
rich.  I  am  more  than  glad  to  see  you — the 
excess,"  he  added,  with  a  light  laugh,  "  being  due 
to  the  fact  that  I  am  going  your  way,  and  natu 
rally  expect  an  invitation  to  ride  with  you." 

"  Which  I  extend  with  all  my  heart." 

It  was  not  altogether  true. 

Dr.  Dorrimore  thanked  me  as  he  seated  him 
self  beside  me,  and  I  drove  cautiously  forward, 
as  before.  Doubtless  it  is  fancy,  but  it  seems 
to  me  now  that  the  remaining  distance  was  made 
in  a  chill  fog ;  that  I  was  uncomfortably  cold ; 
that  the  way  was  longer  than  ever  before,  and  the 
town,  when  we  reached  it,  cheerless,  forbidding, 
and  desolate.  It  must  have  been  early  in  the 
evening,  yet  I  do  not  recollect  a  light  in  any  of 
the  houses  nor  a  living  thing  in  the  streets.  Dor 
rimore  explained  at  some  length  how  he  happened 
to  be  there,  and  where  he  had  been  during  the 
years  that  had  elapsed  since  I  had  seen  him.  I 
recall  the  fact  of  the  narrative,  but  none  of  the 
facts  narrated.  He  had  been  in  foreign  countries 
and  had  returned — that  is  all  that  my  memory 
retains,  and  that  I  already  kr~w.  As  to  mvself, 


THE  XEALM  OF   THE    UNREAL.  251 

I  cannot  remember  that  I  spoke  a  word,  though 
doubtless  I  did.  Of  one  thing  I  am  distinctly 
conscious :  the  man's  presence  at  my  side  was 
strangely  distasteful  and  disquieting — so  much  so 
that  when  I  at  last  pulled  up  under  the  lights  of 
the  Putnam  House  I  experienced  a  sense  of 
having  escaped  some  spiritual  peril  of  a  nature 
peculiarly  forbidding.  This  sense  of  relief  was 
somewhat  modified  by  the  discovery  that  Dr. 
Dorrimore  was  living  at  the  same  hotel. 


n. 

In  partial  explanation  of  my  feelings  regarding 
Dr.  Dorrimore  I  will  relate  briefly  the  circum 
stances  under  which  I  had  met  him  some  years 
before.  One  evening,  a  half-dozen  men,  of  whom 
I  was  one,  were  sitting  in  the  library  of  the 
Bohemian  Club  in  San  Francisco.  The  conver 
sation  had  turned  to  the  subject  of  sleight-of-hand 
and  the  feats  oifazprestidigitateurs,  one  of  whom 
was  then  exhibiting  at  a  local  theater. 

"These  fellows  are  pretenders  in  a  double 
sense,"  said  one  of  the  party ;  "  they  can  do 
nothing  which  it  is  worth  one's  while  to  be  made 
a  dupe  by.  The  humblest  wayside  juggler  in 
India  could  mystify  them  to  the  verge  of  lunacy." 

"  For  example,  how  ?  "  asked  another,  lighting 
a  cigar. 

"  For  example,  by  all  their  common  and  familiar 
performances — throwing  large  objects  into  the  air 
which  never  come  down  ;  causing  plants  to  sprout, 
grow  visibly  and  blossom,  in  bare  ground  chosen 
by  spectators  ;  putting  a  man  in  a  wicker  basket, 
piercing  him  through  and  through  with  a  sword 
while  he  shrieks  and  bleeds,  and  then— the  basket 
being  opened  nothing  is  there ;  tossing  the  free 

•52 


THE  REALM  OF  THE  UNREAL.      253 

end  of  a  silken  ladder  into  the  air,  mounting  it 
and  disappearing." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  I  said,  rather  uncivilly  I  fear. 
"  You  surely  do  not  believe  such  things  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not  :    I  have  seen  them  too  often." 

"But  I  do,"  said  a  journalist  of  considerable 
local  fame  as  a  picturesque  reporter.  "  I  have  so 
frequently  related  them  that  nothing  but  observa 
tion  could  shake  my  conviction.  Why,  gentle 
men,  I  have  my  own  word  for  it." 

Nobody  laughed — all  were  looking  at  some 
thing  behind  me.  Turning  in  my  seat,  I  saw  a 
man  in  evening  dress  who  had  just  entered  the 
room.  He  was  exceedingly  dark,  almost  swarthy, 
with  a  thin  face,  black-bearded  to  the  lips,  an 
abundance  of  coarse  black  hair  in  some  disorder, 
a  high  nose,  and  eyes  that  glittered  with  as  soul 
less  an  expression  as  those  of  a  cobra.  One  of 
the  group  arose  and  introduced  him  as  Dr.  Dorri- 
more  of  Calcutta.  As  each  of  us  was  presented 
in  turn,  he  acknowledged  the  fact  with  a  pro 
found  bow  in  the  Oriental  manner,  but  with 
nothing  of  Oriental  gravity.  His  smile  impressed 
me  as  cynical  and  a  trifle  contemptuous.  His 
whole  demeanor  I  can  describe  only  as  disagree 
ably  engaging. 

His  presence  led  the  conversation  into  other 
channels.  He  said  little — I  do  not  recall  any 
thing  of  what  he  did  say.  I  thought  his  voice 
singularly  rich  and  melodious,  but  it  affected  me 


254  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

in  the  same  way  as  his  eyes  and  his  smile.  In  a 
few  minutes  I  rose  to  go.  He  also  rose  and  put 
on  his  overcoat. 

"  Mr.  Manrich,"  he  said,  "  I  am  going  your  way." 

"  The  devil  you  are  !  "  I  thought.  "  How  do 
you  know  which  way  I  am  going  ?  "  Then  I  said, 
"  I  shall  be  pleased  to  have  your  company." 

We  left  the  building  together.  No  cabs  were 
in  sight,  the  street  cars  had  gone  to  bed,  there 
was  a  full  moon,  and  the  cool  night  air  was 
delightful ;  we  walked  up  the  California  Street 
hill.  I  took  that  direction,  thinking  he  would 
naturally  wish  to  take  another,  toward  one  of  the 
hotels. 

"You  do  not  believe  what  is  told  of  the  Hindoo 
jugglers,"  he  said  abruptly. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

Without  replying  he  laid  his  hand  lightly  upon 
my  arm  and  with  the  other  pointed  to  the  stone 
sidewalk  directly  in  front.  There,  almost  at  our 
feet,  lay  the  dead  body  of  a  man,  the  face  up 
turned  and  white  in  the  moonlight !  A  sword 
whose  hilt  sparkled  with  gems  stood  fixed  and 
upright  in  the  breast ;  a  pool  of  blood  had  col 
lected  on  the  stones  of  the  sidewalk. 

I  was  startled  and  terrified — not  only  by  what  I 
saw,  but  by  the  circumstances  under  which  I  saw  it. 
Repeatedly  during  our  ascent  of  the  hill  my  eyes, 
I  thought,  had  traversed  the  whole  reach  of  that 
sidewalk,  from  street  to  street.  How  could  they 


THE  REALM  OF   THE    UNREAL.  255 

have  been  insensible  to  this  dreadful  object  now 
so  conspicuous  in  the  white  moonlight? 

As  my  dazed  faculties  cleared  I  observed  that 
the  body  was  in  evening  dress  ;  the  overcoat 
thrown  wide  open  revealed  the  dress  coat,  the 
white  tie,  the  broad  expanse  of  shirt  front  pierced 
by  the  sword.  And — horrible  revelation  J^the 
face,  except  for  its  pallor,  was  that  of  my  com 
panion  !  It  was  to  the  minutest  detail  of  dress 
and  feature  Dr.  Dorrimore  himself.  Inexpress 
ibly  bewildered  and  horrified,  I  turned  to  look 
for  the  living  man.  He  was  nowhere  visible,  and 
with  an  added  terror  I  retired  from  the  place, 
down  the  hill  in  the  direction  whence  I  had  come. 
I  had  taken  but  a  few  strides  when  a  strong  grasp 
upon  my  shoulder  arrested  me.  I  came  near  cry 
ing  out  with  terror :  the  dead  man,  the  sword 
still  fixed  in  his  breast,  stood  beside  me  !  Pulling 
out  the  sword  with  his  disengaged  hand,  he  flung 
it  from  him,  the  moonlight  glinting  upon  the 
jewels  of  its  hilt  and  the  unsullied  steel  of  its 
blade.  It  fell  with  a  clang  upon  the  sidewalk 
ahead  and — vanished  !  The  man,  swarthy  as  be 
fore,  relaxed  his  grasp  upon  my  shoulder  and 
looked  at  me  with  the  same  cynical  regard  which 
I  had  observed  on  first  meeting  him.  The  dead 
have  not  that  look — it  partly  restored  me,  and 
turning  my  head  backward,  I  saw  that  the  smooth 
white  expanse  of  sidewalk  was  absolutely  un* 
broken  from  street  to  street. 


256  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE! 

11  What  does  it  all  mean,  you  devil  ? "  I  de 
manded,  fiercely  enough,  though  weak  and  trem 
bling  in  every  limb. 

"It  is  what  most  people  are  pleased  to  call 
jugglery,"  he  answered,  with  a  light  hard  laugh. 

He  turned  down  Dupont  Street  and  I  saw  him 
no  more  until  we  met  in  the  Auburn  ravine. 


III. 

On  the  day  after  my  second  meeting  with  Dr. 
Dorrimore  I  did  not  see  him :  the  clerk  in  the 
Putnam  House  explained  that  a  slight  illness  con 
fined  him  to  his  rooms.  That  afternoon,  being  at 
the  railway  station,  I  was  surprised  and  made 
happy  by  the  unexpected  arrival  of  Miss  Margaret 
Corray  and  her  mother  from  Oakland. 

This  is  not  a  love  story.  I  am  no  story 
teller,  and  love  as  it  is  cannot  be  portrayed  in  a 
literature  dominated  and  enthralled  by  the  debas 
ing  tyranny  which  "  sentences  letters  "  in  the  name 
of  the  Young  Girl.  Under  the  Young  Girl's 
blighting  reign — or  rather  under  the  rule  of  those 
false  Ministers  of  the  Censure  who  have  appointed 
themselves  to  the  custody  of  her  welfare — love 

veils  her  sacred  fires, 
And,  unaware,  Morality  expires, 

famished  upon  the  sifted  meal  and  distilled  water 
of  a  prudish  purveyance. 

Let  it  suffice  that  Miss  Corray  and  I  were 
engaged  in  marriage.  She  and  her  mother  went 
to  the  hotel  at  which  I  lived,  and  for  two  weeks 
I  saw  her  daily.  That  I  was  happy  need  hardly 

257 


258  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

be  said  ;  the  only  bar  to  my  perfect  enjoyment 
of  those  golden  days  was  the  presence  of  Dr. 
Dorrimore,  whom  I  had  felt  compelled  to  intro 
duce  to  the  ladies.  By  them  he  was  evidently 
held  in  favor.  What  could  I  say  ?  I  knew  abso 
lutely  nothing  to  his  discredit.  His  manners  were 
those  of  a  cultivated  and  considerate  gentleman  ; 
and  to  women  a  man's  manner  is  the  man.  On 
one  or  two  occasions  when  I  saw  Miss  Corray 
walking  with  him  I  was  furious,  and  once  had  the 
indiscretion  to  protest.  Asked  for  reasons,  I  had 
none  to  give,  and  fancied  I  saw  in  her  expression 
a  shade  of  contempt  for  the  vagaries  of  a  jealous 
mind.  In  time  I  grew  morose  and  consciously  dis 
agreeable,  and  resolved  in  my  madness  to  return 
to  San  Francisco  the  next  day.  Of  this,  how 
ever,  I  said  nothing. 


IV. 

There  was  at  Auburn  an  old,  abandoned  cem 
etery.  It  was  nearly  in  the  heart  of  the  town, 
yet  by  night  it  was  as  gruesome  a  place  as  the 
most  dismal  of  human  moods  could  crave.  The 
railings  about  the  plats  were  prostrate,  decayed,  or 
altogether  gone.  Many  of  the  graves  were  sunken, 
from  others  grew  sturdy  pines,  whose  roots  had 
committed  unspeakable  sin.  The  headstones  were 
fallen  and  broken  across;  brambles  overran  the 
ground  ;  the  fence  was  mostly  gone,  and  cows 
and  pigs  wandered  there  at  will ;  the  place  was 
a  dishonor  to  the  living,  a  calumny  on  the  dead, 
a  blasphemy  against  God.  The  evening  of  the 
day  on  which  I  had  taken  my  madman's  resolu 
tion  to  depart  in  anger  from  all  that  was  dear  to 
me,  found  me  in  that  congenial  spot.  The  light 
of  the  half  moon  fell  ghastly  through  the  foliage 
of  trees  in  spots  and  patches,  revealing  much  that 
was  unsightly,  and  the  black  shadows  seemed  con 
spiracies  withholding  to  the  proper  time  revela 
tions  of  darker  import.  Passing  along  what  had 
been  a  gravel  path,  I  saw  emerging  from  shadow 
the  figure  of  Dr.  Dorrimore.  I  was  myself  in 
shadow,  and  stood  still  with  clenched  hands  and 

359 


260  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

set  teeth,  trying  to  control  the  impulse  to  leap 
forward  and  strangle  him.  A  moment  later  a 
second  figure  joined  him  and  clung  to  his  arm. 
It  was  Margaret  Corray  ! 

I  cannot  rightly  relate  what  occurred.  I  know 
that  I  sprang  forward,  bent  upon  murder ;  I  know 
that  I  was  found  in  the  gray  of  the  morning, 
bruised  and  bloody,  with  ringer  marks  upon  my 
throat.  I  was  taken  to  the  Putnam  House,  where 
for  days  I  lay  in  a  delirium.  All  this  I  know,  for  I 
have  been  told.  And  of  my  own  knowledge  I 
know  that  when  consciousness  returned  with  con 
valescence  I  sent  for  the  clerk  of  the  hotel. 

"  Are  Mrs.  Corray  and  her  daughter  still  here  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  What  name  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Corray." 

"  Nobody  of  that  name  has  been  here." 

"  I  beg  you  will  not  trifle  with  me,"  I  said  petu 
lantly.  "  You  see  that  I  am  all  right  now ;  tell 
me  the  truth." 

"  I  give  you  my  word,"  he  replied  with  evident 
sincerity,  "  we  have  had  no  guests  of  that  name." 

His  words  stupefied  me.  I  lay  for  a  few 
moments  in  silence ;  then  I  asked :  "  Where  is 
Dr.  Dorrimore  ?  " 

"  He  left  on  the  morning  of  your  fight  and  has 
not  been  heard  of  since.  It  was  a  rough  deal  he 
gave  you." 


V. 

Such  are  the  facts  of  this  case.  Margaret 
Corray  is  now  my  wife.  She  has  never  seen 
Auburn,  and  during  the  weeks  whose  history,  as 
it  shaped  itself  in  my  brain,  I  have  endeavored  to 
relate,  was  living  at  her  home  in  Oakland,  wonder 
ing  where  her  lover  was,  and  why  he  did  not 
write.  The  other  day  I  saw  in  the  Baltimore  Sun 
the  following  paragraph : 

"  Professor  Valentine  Dorrimore,  the  hypnotist, 
had  a  large  audience  last  night.  The  lecturer, 
who  has  lived  most  of  his  life  in  India,  gave  some 
marvelous  exhibitions  of  his  power,  hypnotizing 
anyone  who  chose  to  submit  himself  to  the  ex 
periment  by  merely  looking  at  him.  In  fact,  he 
twice  hypnotized  the  entire  audience  (reporters 
alone  exempted),  making  all  entertain  the  most 
extraordinary  illusions.  The  most  valuable  feature 
of  the  lecture  was  the  disclosure  of  the  methods  of 
the  Hindoo  jugglers  in  their  famous  performances, 
familiar  in  the  mouths  of  travelers.  The  pro 
fessor  declares  that  these  thaumaturgists  have 
acquired  such  skill  in  the  art  which  he  learned  at 
their  feet  that  they  perform  their  miracles  by 
simply  throwing  the  '  spectators '  into  a  state  of 

361 


262  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

hypnosis  and  telling  them  what  to  see  and  hear. 
His  assertion  that  a  peculiarly  susceptible  subject 
may  be  kept  in  the  realm  of  the  unreal  for 
weeks,  months,  and  even  years,  dominated  by 
whatever  hallucinations  the  operator  may  from 
time  to  time  suggest,  is  a  trifle  disquieting." 


A   BABY  TRAMP. 

IF  you  had  seen  little  Jo  standing  at  the  street 
corner  in  the  rain,  you  would  hardly  have  admired 
him.  It  was  apparently  an  ordinary  autumn  rain 
storm,  but  the  water  which  fell  upon  Jo  (who  was 
hardly  old  enough  to  be  either  just  or  unjust,  and 
so  perhaps  did  not  come  under  the  law  of  impartial 
distribution)  appeared  to  have  some  property 
peculiar  to  itself :  one  would  have  said  it  was  dark 
and  adhesive — sticky.  But  that  could  hardly  be 
so,  even  in  Blackburg,  where  things  certainly  did 
occur  that  were  a  good  deal  out  of  the  common. 

For  example,  ten  or  twelve  years  before,  a 
shower  of  small  frogs  had  fallen,  as  is  veritably 
attested  by  a  contemporaneous  chronicle,  the 
record  concluding  with  a  somewhat  obscure  state 
ment  to  the  effect  that  the  chronicler  considered 
it  good  growing  weather  for  Frenchmen. 

Some  years  later  Blackburg  had  a  fall  of  crimson 
snow ;  for  it  is  cold  in  Blackburg  when  winter  is  on, 
and  the  snows  are  frequent  and  deep.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  of  it — the  snow  in  this  instance  was  of  the 
color  of  blood  and  melted  into  water  of  the  same 
hue,  if  water  it  was,  not  blood.  The  phenomenon 
had  attracted  wide  attention,  and  science  had  as 


264  CAN  S(JCH  THINGS  BE? 

many  explanations  as  there  were  scientists  who 
knew  nothing  about  it.  But  the  men  of  Black- 
burg — men  who  for  many  years  had  lived  right  there 
where  the  red  snow  fell,  and  might  be  supposed 
to  know  a  good  deal  about  the  matter — shook 
their  heads  and  said  something  would  come  of  it. 

And  something  did,  for  the  next  summer  was 
made  memorable  by  the  prevalence  of  a  mysterious 
disease — epidemic,  endemic,  or  the  Lord  knows 
what,  though  the  physicians  didn't — which  carried 
away  a  full  half  of  the  population.  Most  of  the 
other  half  carried  itself  away  and  was  slow  to 
return.  All  finally  came  back,  and  were  now 
increasing  and  multiplying  as  before,  but  Black- 
burg  had  not  since  been  altogether  the  same. 

Of  quite  another  kind,  though  equally  "  out  of 
the  common,"  was  the  incident  of  Hetty  Parlow's 
ghost.  Hetty  Parlow's  maiden  name  had  been 
Brownon,  and  that,  in  Blackburg,  meant  more  than 
one  would  think.  The  Brownons  had  from  time 
immemorial — from  the  very  earliest  of  the  old 
colonial  days — been  the  leading  family  of  the 
town.  It  was  the  richest  and  it  was  the  best,  and 
Blackburg  would  have  shed  the  last  drop  of  its 
plebeian  blood  in  defense  of  the  Brownon  fair 
fame.  As  few  of  the  family's  members  had  ever 
been  known  to  live  permanently  away  from  Black 
burg,  although  most  of  them  were  educated  else 
where  and  nearly  all  had  traveled  "  abroad,"  there 
was  quite  a  number  of  them.  The  men  held  most 


A   BABY   TRAMP.  265 

of  the  public  offices,  and  the  women  were  foremost 
in  all  good  works.  Of  these  latter  Hetty  was  most 
beloved  by  reason  of  the  sweetness  of  her  disposi 
tion,  the  purity  of  her  character,  and  her  singular 
personal  beauty.  She  married  in  Boston  a  young 
scapegrace  named  Parlow,  and,  like  a  good 
Brownon,  brought  him  to  Blackburg  forthwith 
and  made  a  man  and  a  town  councilman  of  him. 
They  had  a  child  which  they  named  Joseph  and 
dearly  loved,  as  was  then  the  fashion  among 
parents  in  all  that  region.  Then  they  died  of  the 
mysterious  disorder  already  mentioned,  and  at  the 
age  of  one  whole  year  Joseph  set  up  as  an  orphan. 

Unfortunately  for  Joseph  the  disease  which  had 
cut  off  his  parents  did  not  stop  at  that ;  it  went  on 
and  extirpated  nearly  the  whole  Brownon  contin 
gent  and  its  allies  by  marriage  ;  and  those  who  fled 
did  not  return.  The  tradition  was  broken,  the 
Brownon  estates  passed  into  alien  hands,  and  the 
only  Brownons  remaining  in  that  place  were  under 
ground  in  Oak  Hill  Cemetery,  where,  indeed,  was 
a  colony  of  them  powerful  enough  to  resist  the 
encroachment  of  surrounding  tribes  and  hold  the 
best  part  of  the  grounds.  But  about  the  ghost : 

One  night,  about  five  years  after  the  death  of 
Hetty  Parlow,  a  number  of  the  young  people  of 
Blackburg  were  passing  Oak  Hill  Cemetery  in  a 
wagon — if  you  have  been  there  you  will  remem 
ber  that  the  road  to  Greenton  runs  alongside  it  on 
the  south.  They  had  been  attending  a  May  Day 


266  CAN  SUCtt  THINGS  BE? 

festival  at  Greenton;  and  that  serves  to  fix  the 
date.  Altogether  there  may  have  been  a  dozen, 
and  a  jolly  party  they  were,  considering  the  legacy 
of  gloom  left  by  the  town's  recent  somber  experi 
ences.  As  they  passed  the  cemetery  the  man 
driving  suddenly  reined  in  his  team  with  an  excla 
mation  of  surprise.  It  was  sufficiently  surprising, 
no  doubt,  for  just  ahead,  and  almost  at  the 
roadside,  though  inside  the  cemetery,  stood  the 
ghost  of  Hetty  Parlow.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
of  it,  for  she  had  been  personally  known  to  every 
youth  and  maiden  in  the  party.  That  established 
the  thing's  identity ;  its  character  as  ghost  was 
attested  by  all  the  customary  signs — the  shroud, 
the  long,  undone  hair,  the  "  far-away  look"  — 
everything.  This  disquieting  apparition  was 
stretching  out  its  arms  toward  the  west,  as  if  in 
supplication  for  the  evening  star,  which,  certainly, 
was  an  alluring  object,  though  obviously  out  of 
reach.  As  they  all  sat  silent  (so  the  story  goes) 
every  member  of  that  party  of  merrymakers — they 
had  merry-made  on  coffee  and  lemonade  only — 
distinctly  heard  that  ghost  call  the  name  "  Joey, 
Joey !  "  A  moment  later  nothing  was  there.  Of 
course,  one  does  not  believe  all  that. 

Now,  at  that  moment,  as  was  afterward  ascer 
tained,  Joey  was  wandering  about  in  the  sagebrush 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  continent,  nearWinne- 
mucca,  in  the  State  of  Nevada.  He  had  been 
taken  to  that  town  by  some  very  good  people  dis- 


A  &ABY  TRAMP.  267 

tantly  related  to  his  dead  father,  and  by  them 
adopted  and  most  tenderly  cared  for.  But  on 
that  evening  the  poor  child  had  strayed  from 
home  and  was  lost  in  the  desert. 

His  after  history  is  involved  in  the  greatest  ob 
scurity  and  has  gaps  which  conjecture  alone  can 
fill.  It  is  known  that  he  was  found  by  a  family  of 
Piute  Indians,  who  kept  the  little  wretch  with  them 
for  a  time  and  then  sold  him — actually  sold  him 
for  money  to  a  woman  on  one  of  the  east-bound 
trains,  at  a  station  a  long  way  from  Winnemucca. 
The  woman  professed  to  have  made  all  manner  of 
inquiries,  but  all  in  vain :  so,  being  childless  and  a 
widow,  she  adopted  him  herself.  Jo,  at  this  point 
of  his  career,  seemed  to  be  getting  a  long  way  from 
the  condition  of  orphanage ;  the  interposition  of 
a  multitude  of  parents  between  himself  and  that 
woeful  state  promised  him  a  long  immunity  from 
its  disadvantages.  Mrs.  Darnell,  his  newest 
mother,  lived  in  Cleveland,  O.  But  her  adopted 
son  did  not  long  remain  with  her.  He  was 
seen  one  afternoon  by  a  policeman,  new  to  that 
beat,  deliberately  toddling  away  from  her  house, 
and  being  questioned  answered  that  he  was  "a 
doin'  home."  He  must  have  traveled  by  rail,  some 
how,  for  three  days  later  he  was  in  the  town  of 
Whiteville,  which,  as  you  know,  is  a  long  way  from 
Blackburg.  His  clothing  was  in  pretty  fair  con 
dition,  but  he  was  sinfully  dirty.  Being  unable 
to  give  any  account  of  himself,  he  was  arrested  as 


268  CAN  LUCH   THINGS  BE? 

a  vagrant  and  sentenced  to  imprisonment  in  the 
Infants'  Sheltering  Home — where  he  was  washed. 

Jo  ran  away  from  the  Infants'  Sheltering  Home 
at  Whiteville — just  took  to  the  woods  one  day, 
and  the  Home  knew  him  no  more  forever. 

We  find  him  next,  or  rather  get  back  to  him, 
standing  forlorn  in  the  cold  autumn  rain  at  a 
suburban  street  corner  in  Blackburg  ;  and  it  seems 
right  to  explain  now  that  the  raindrops  falling 
upon  him  there  were  really  not  dark  and  gummy; 
they  only  failed  to  make  his  face  and  hands  less 
so.  Jo  was  indeed  fearfully  and  wonderfully  be 
smirched,  as  by  the  hand  of  an  artist.  And  the 
forlorn  little  tramp  had  no  shoes ;  his  feet  were 
bare,  red,  and  swollen,  and  when  he  walked  he 
limped  with  both  legs.  As  to  clothing — ah,  you 
would  hardly  have  had  the  skill  to  name  any 
single  garment  that  he  wore,  or  say  by  what 
magic  he  kept  it  upon  him.  That  he  was  cold  all 
over  and  all  through  did  not  admit  of  a  doubt ; 
he  knew  it  himself.  Anyone  would  have  been 
cold  there  that  evening ;  but,  for  that  reason, 
no  one  else  was  there.  How  Joe  came  to  be 
there  himself,  he  could  not  for  the  flickering  little 
life  of  him  have  told,  even  if  gifted  with  a  vocabu 
lary  exceeding  a  dozen  words.  From  the  way  he 
stared  about  him  one  could  have  seen  that  he  had 
no  notion  of  where  (nor  why)  he  was. 

Yet  he  was  not  altogether  a  fool  in  his  day  and 
generation ;  being  cold  and  hungry,  and  still  able 


A   BABY   TRAMP.  269 

to  walk  a  little  by  bending  his  knees  very  much  in 
deed  and  putting  his  feet  down  toes  first,  he  decided 
to  enter  one  of  the  houses  which  flanked  the 
street  at  long  intervals  and  looked  so  bright  and 
warm.  But  when  he  attempted  to  act  upon  that 
very  sensible  decision  a  burly  dog  came  bowsing 
out  and  disputed  his  right.  Inexpressibly  fright 
ened  and  believing,  no  doubt  (with  some  reason, 
too),  that  brutes  without  meant  brutality  within, 
he  hobbled  away  from  all  the  houses,  and  with 
gray,  wet  fields  to  right  of  him  and  gray,  wet 
fields  to  left  of  him — with  the  rain  half  blinding 
him  and  the  night  coming  in  mist  and  darkness, 
held  his  way  along  the  road  that  leads  to  Green- 
ton.  That  is  to  say,  the  road  leads  those  to 
Greenton  who  succeed  in  passing  the  Oak  Hill 
Cemetery.  Quite  a  number  every  year  do  not. 

Jo  did  not. 

They  found  him  there  the  next  morning,  very 
wet,  very  cold,  but  no  longer  hungry.  He  had 
apparently  entered  the  cemetery  gate — hoping, 
perhaps,  that  it  led  to  a  house  where  there  was  no 
dog — and  gone  blundering  about  in  the  darkness, 
falling  over  many  a  grave,  no  doubt,  until  he  had 
tired  of  it  all  and  given  up.  The  little  body  lay 
upon  one  side,  with  one  soiled  cheek  upon  one 
soiled  hand,  the  other  hand  tucked  away  among 
the  rags  to  make  it  warm,  the  other  cheek  washed 
clean  and  white  at  last,  as  for  a  kiss  from  one  of 
God's  great  angels.  It  was  observed — though 


270  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

nothing  was  thought  of  it  at  the  time,  the  body 
being  as  yet  "  unidentified  "—that  the  little  fel 
low  was  lying  upon  the  grave  of  Hetty  Parlow. 
The  grave,  however,  had  not  opened  to  receive 
him.  That  is  a  circumstance,  which,  without  act 
ual  irreverence,  one  may  wish  had  been  ordered 
otherwise. 


My  peculiar  relation  to  the  author  of  the  fol 
lowing  uncommon  narratives  is  such  that  I  must 
ask  the  reader  to  overlook  the  absence  of  all  ex 
planation  as  to  hoiu  they  came  into  my  possession. 
Withal,  my  knowledge  of  him  is  so  meager  that  I 
should  rather  not  undertake  to  say  if  he  were 
himself  persuaded  of  the  truth  of  what  he  relates  ; 
certainly  such  inquiries  as  I  have  thought  it  worth 
while  to  set  about  have  not  in  every  instance 
tended  to  confirmation  of  the  statements  made. 
Yet  his  style,  devoid  alike  of  artifice  and  art, 
almost  baldly  simple  and  direct,  seems  hardly 
compatible  with  the  disingenuousness  of  a  merely 
literary  intention ;  one  would  call  it  the  manner 
of  one  more  concerned  for  the  fruits  of  research 
than  for  the  flowers  of  expression.  In  transcrib 
ing  his  notes  and  fortifying  their  claim  to  atten 
tion  by  giving  them  something  of  an  orderly 
arrangement,  I  have  scrupulously  refrained  from 
embellishing  them  with  such  small  ornaments  of 
diction  as  I  may  have  felt  myself  able  to  bestow, 
which  would  not  only  have  been  impertinent,  even 
if  pleasing,  but  would  have  given  me  a  somewhat 
closer  relation  to  the  work  than  I  should  care  to 
have  and  to  avow. — A,  B. 


•71 


SOME    HAUNTED    HOUSES. 


"THE   ISLE   OF   PINES." 

FOR  many  years  there  lived  near  the  town 
of  Gallipolis,  O.,  an  old  man  named  Herman 
Deluse.  Very  little  was  known  of  his  history,  for 
he  would  neither  speak  of  it  himself  nor  suf 
fer  others.  It  was  a  common  belief  among  his 
neighbors  that  he  had  been  a  pirate — if  upon  any 
better  evidence  than  his  collection  of  boarding 
pikes,  cutlasses,  and  ancient  flint-lock  pistols,  I  do 
not  know.  He  lived  entirely  alone,  in  a  small 
house  of  four  rooms  falling  rapidly  into  decay, 
and  never  repaired  further  than  was  required  by 
the  imperative  mandates  of  the  weather.  It  stood 
on  a  slight  elevation  in  the  midst  of  a  large 
stony  field  overgrown  with  brambles  and  culti 
vated  in  patches,  and  that  in  the  most  primitive 
way.  It  was  his  only  visible  property,  but  could 
hardly  have  yielded  him  a  living,  simple  and  few  as 
were  his  wants.  He  seemed  always  to  have  ready 
money,  and  paid  cash  for  all  his  purchases  at  the 
village  stores  roundabout,  seldom  buying  more 
than  two  or  three  times  at  the  same  place  until 


274  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

after  the  lapse  of  a  considerable  period.  He  got 
no  commendation,  however,  for  this  equitable  dis 
tribution  of  his  patronage ;  people  were  disposed 
to  regard  it  as  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  conceal 
his  possession  of  so  much  money.  That  he  had 
great  hoards  of  ill-gotten  gold  buried  somewhere 
about  his  tumble-down  dwelling  was  not  reason 
ably  to  be  doubted  by  any  honest  soul  conver 
sant  with  the  facts  of  local  tradition  and  gifted 
with  a  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things. 

On  the  Qth  of  November,  1867,  the  old  man 
died  ;  at  least  his  dead  body  was  discovered  on 
the  loth,  and  physicians  testified  that  death  had 
occurred  about  twenty-four  hours  previously — 
precisely  how,  they  were  unable  to  say ;  for  the 
post-mortem  examination  showed  every  organ  to 
be  absolutely  healthy,  with  no  indication  any 
where  of  disorder  or  violence.  According  to 
them  death  must  have  taken  place  about  noonday, 
yet  the  body  was  found  in  bed.  The  verdict  of 
the  coroner's  jury  was  that  he  "  came  to  his  death 
by  a  visitation  of  God."  The  body  was  buried 
and  the  public  administrator  took  charge  of  the 
estate.  A  rigorous  search  disclosed  nothing 
more  than  was  already  known  about  the  de 
ceased,  and  much  patient  excavation  here  and 
there  about  the  premises  by  thoughtful  and 
thrifty  neighbors  went  unrewarded.  The  admin 
istrator  locked  up  the  house  against  the  time 
when  the  property,  real  and  personal,  should  be 


SOME  HAUNTED  HOUSES.  275 

sold  by  law  with  a  view  to  defraying,  partly,  the 
expenses  of  the  sale. 

The  night  of  November  20  was  boisterous.  A 
furious  gale  stormed  across  the  country,  scourg 
ing  it  with  desolating  drifts  of  sleet.  Great  trees 
were  torn  from  the  earth  and  hurled  across  the 
roads.  So  wild  a  night  had  never  been  known  in 
all  that  region,  but  toward  morning  the  storm  had 
blown  itself  out  of  breath,  and  the  day  dawned 
bright  and  clear.  At  about  eight  o'clock  that 
morning  the  Rev.  Henry  Galbraith,  a  well-known 
and  highly  esteemed  Baptist  minister,  arrived  on 
foot  at  his  house,  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  De- 
luse  place.  Mr.  Galbraith  had  been  for  a  month 
in  Cincinnati.  He  had  come  up  the  river  in  a 
steamboat,  and  landing  at  Gallipolis  the  previous 
evening,  had  immediately  obtained  a  horse  and 
buggy  and  set  out  for  home.  The  violence  of 
storm  had  delayed  him  overnight,  and  in  the 
morning  the  fallen  trees  had  compelled  him  to 
abandon  his  conveyance  and  continue  his  journey 
afoot. 

"  But  where  did  you  pass  the  night  ?  "  inquired 
his  wife,  after  he  had  briefly  related  his  adventure. 

"  With  old  Deluse  at  the  '  Isle  of  Pines/  "  *  was 
the  laughing  reply ;  "  and  a  glum  enough  time  I 
had  of  it.  He  made  no  objection  to  my  remain 
ing,  but  not  a  word  could  I  get  out  of  him." 

*  The  Isle  of  Pines,  in  the  West  Indies,  was  formerly  &  famous 
rendezvous  of  pirates. 


276  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

Fortunately  for  the  interests  of  truth,  there  was 
present  at  this  conversation  Mr.  Robert  Mosley 
Maren,  a  lawyer  and  litterateur  of  Columbus,  the 
same  who  wrote  the  delightful  "  Mellowcraft 
Papers."  Noting,  but  apparently  not  sharing,  the 
astonishment  caused  by  Mr.  Galbraith's  answer, 
this  ready-witted  person  checked  by  a  gesture  the 
exclamations  that  would  naturally  have  followed, 
and  tranquilly  inquired  :  "  How  came  you  to  go 
in  there  ?  " 

This  is  Mr.  Maren's  version  of  Mr.  Galbraith's 
reply: 

"  I  saw  a  light  moving  about  in  the  house,  and 
being  nearly  blinded  by  the  sleet,  and  half  frozen 
besides,  drove  in  at  the  gate  and  put  up  my 
horse  in  the  old  rail  stable,  where  it  is  now.  I 
then  rapped  at  the  door,  and  getting  no  invitation, 
went  in  without  one.  The  room  was  dark,  but, 
having  matches,  I  found  a  candle  and  lit  it.  I 
tried  to  enter  the  adjoining  room,  but  the  door 
was  fast,  and  although  I  heard  the  old  man's 
heavy  footsteps  in  there,  he  made  no  response  to 
my  calls.  There  was  no  fire  on  the  hearth,  so  I 
made  one,  and  laying  [sic]  down  before  it  with  my 
overcoat  under  my  head,  prepared  myself  for  sleep. 
Pretty  soon  the  door  which  I  had  tried  silently 
opened,  and  the  old  man  came  in,  carrying  a  can 
dle.  I  spoke  to  him  pleasantly,  apologizing  for 
my  intrusion,  but  he  took  no  notice  of  me.  He 
seemed  to  be  searching  for  something,  though  his 


SOME  HA  UNITED  HOUSES.  277 

eyes  were  unmoved  in  their  sockets.  I  wonder  if 
he  ever  walks  in  his  sleep !  He  took  a  circuit  a 
part  of  the  way  round  the  room,  and  then  went 
out  the  same  way  he  came  in.  Twice  more  before 
I  slept  he  came  back  into  the  room,  acting  precisely 
the  same  way,  and  departing  as  at  first.  In  the 
intervals  I  heard  him  tramping  all  over  the  house, 
his  footsteps  distinctly  audible  in  the  pauses  of 
the  storm.  When  I  woke  in  the  morning  he  had 
already  gone  out." 

Mr.  Maren  attempted  some  further  questioning, 
but  was  unable  longer  to  restrain  the  family's 
tongues ;  the  story  of  Deluse's  death  and  burial 
came  out,  greatly  to  the  good  minister's  astonish 
ment. 

"  The  explanation  of  your  adventure  is  very 
simple/'  said  Mr.  Maren.  "  I  don't  believe  old 
Deluse  walks  in  his  sleep — not  in  his  present 
one — but  you  evidently  dream  in  yours." 

And  to  this  view  of  the  matter  Mr.  Galbraith 
was  compelled  reluctantly  to  assent. 

Nevertheless,  a  late  hour  of  the  next  night 
found  these  two  gentlemen,  accompanied  by  a 
son  of  the  minister,  in  the  road  in  front  of  the 
old  Deluse  house.  There  was  a  light  inside;  it 
appeared  now  at  one  window  and  now  at  another. 
The  three  men  advanced  to  the  door.  Just  as 
they  reached  it  there  came  from  the  interior  a 
confusion  of  the  most  appalling  sounds — the  clash 
of  weapons,  steel  against  steel,  sharp  explosions 


278  CAN1  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

as  of  firearms,  shrieks  of  women,  groans,  and  the 
curses  of  men  in  combat !  The  investigators  stood 
a  moment,  irresolute,  frightened.  Then  Mr.  Gal. 
braith  tried  the  door.  It  was  fast.  But  the 
minister  was  a  man  of  courage,  a  man,  moreover, 
of  Herculean  strength.  He  retired  a  pace  or  two 
and  rushed  against  the  door,  striking  it  with  his 
right  shoulder  and  bursting  it  from  the  hinges  with 
a  loud  crash.  In  a  moment  the  three  were  inside. 
Darkness  and  silence  !  The  only  sound  was  the 
beating  of  their  hearts. 

Mr.  Maren  had  provided  himself  with  matches 
and  a  candle.  With  some  difficulty,  begotten  of 
his  excitement,  he  made  a  light,  and  they  pro 
ceeded  to  explore  the  place,  passing  from  room  to 
room.  Everything  was  in  orderly  arrangement, 
as  it  had  been  left  by  the  sheriff ;  nothing  had  been 
disturbed.  A  light  coating  of  dust  was  everywhere. 
A  back  door  was  partly  open,  as  if  by  neglect, 
and  their  first  thought  was  that  the  authors  of  the 
awful  revelry  might  have  escaped.  The  door  was 
opened,  and  the  light  of  the  candle  thrown  through 
upon  the  ground.  The  expiring  effort  of  the  pre 
vious  night's  storm  had  been  a  light  fall  of  snow  ; 
there  were  no  footprints ;  the  white  surface  was 
unbroken.  They  closed  the  door  and  entered  the 
last  room  of  the  four  that  the  house  contained — 
that  farthest  from  the  road,  in  an  angle  of  the 
building.  Here  the  candle  in  Mr.  Maren's  hand 
was  suddenly  extinguished  as  by  a  draught  of  air. 


SOME  HAUNTED  HOUSES.  279 

Almost  immediately  followed  the  sound  of  a 
heavy  fall,  shaking  the  building.  When  the  can 
dle  had  been  hastily  relighted  young  Mr.  Gal- 
braith  was  seen  prostrate  on  the  floor  at  a  little 
distance  from  the  others.  He  was  dead.  In  one 
hand  the  body  grasped  a  heavy  sack  of  coins, 
which  later  examination  showed  to  be  all  of  old 
Spanish  mintage.  Directly  over  the  body  a  board 
had  been  torn  from  its  fastenings  in  the  wall,  and 
from  the  cavity  so  disclosed  it  was  evident  that 
the  bag  had  been  taken. 

Another  inquest  was  held  :  another  post-mortem 
examination  failed  to  reveal  a  probable  cause  of 
death.  Another  verdict  of  "  the  visitation  of 
God  "  left  all  at  liberty  to  form  their  own  con 
clusions.  Mr.  Maren  contended  that  the  young 
man  died  of  excitement. 


A   FRUITLESS   ASSIGNMENT. 

HENRY  SAYLOR,  who  was  killed  in  Covington, 
Ky.,  in  a  quarrel  with  Antonio  Finch,  was  once  a 
reporter  on  the  Cincinnati  Commercial.  In  the 
year  1859  a  vacant  dwelling  on  Vine  Street,  in 
Cincinnati,  became  the  center  of  a  local  excite 
ment  because  of  the  strange  sights  and  sounds 
said  to  be  observed  in  it  nightly.  According  to 
the  testimony  of  many  reputable  residents  of  the 
vicinity  these  were  inconsistent  with  any  other 
hypothesis  than  that  the  house  was  haunted. 
Figures  with  something  singularly  unfamiliar 
about  them  were  seen  by  crowds  on  the  sidewalk 
to  pass  in  and  out.  No  one  could  say  just  where 
they  appeared  upon  the  open  lawn  on  their  way 
to  the  front  door  by  which  they  entered,  nor  at 
exactly  what  point  they  vanished  as  they  came 
out ;  or,  rather,  while  each  spectator  was  positive 
enough  about  these  matters,  no  two  agreed. 
They  were  all  similarly  at  variance  in  their  de 
scriptions  of  the  figures  themselves.  Some  of  the 
bolder  of  the  curious  throng  ventured  on  several 
evenings  to  stand  upon  the  doorsteps  to  inter 
cept  the  ghostly  visitors  or  get  a  nearer  look  at 
them.  These  courageous  men,  it  was  said,  were 


SOME  HAUNTED  HOUSES.  2? I 

unable  to  force  the  door  by  their  united  strength, 
and  invariably  were  hurled  from  the  steps  by 
some  invisible  agency  and  severely  injured  ;  the 
door  immediately  afterward  opening,  apparently 
of  its  own  volition,  to  admit  or  free  some  ghostly 
guest.  The  dwelling  was  known  as  the  Roscoe 
house,  a  family  of  that  name  having  lived  there 
for  some  years,  and  then,  one  by  one,  disappeared, 
the  last  to  leave  being  an  old  woman.  Stories  of 
foul  play  and  successive  murders  had  always  been 
rife,  but  never  were  authenticated. 

One  day  during  the  prevalence  of  the  excite 
ment  Saylor  presented  himself  at  the  office  of  the 
Commercial  for  orders.  He  was  handed  a  note 
from  the  city  editor  which  read  as  follows  :  "  Go 
and  pass  the  night  alone  in  the  haunted  house  on 
Vine  Street  and  if  anything  occurs  worth  while 
make  two  columns."  Saylor  obeyed  his  superior; 
he  could  not  afford  to  lose  his  position  on  the 
paper. 

Apprising  the  police  of  his  intention,  he  effected 
an  entrance  through  a  rear  window  before  dark, 
walked  through  the  deserted  rooms,  bare  of 
furniture,  dusty  and  desolate,  and  seating  himself 
at  last  in  the  parlor  on  an  old  sofa  which  he  had 
dragged  in  from  another  room,  watched  the  deep 
ening  of  the  gloom  as  night  came  on.  Before  it 
was  altogether  dark  the  curious  crowd  had  col 
lected  in  the  street,  silent,  as  a  rule,  and  expect 
ant,  with  here  and  there  a  scoffer  uttering  his 


282  CAN1  SUCH  THINGS  ££? 

incredulity  and  courage  with  scornful  remarks  or 
ribald  cries.  None  knew  of  the  anxious  watcher 
inside.  He  feared  to  make  a  light;  the  uncur 
tained  windows  would  have  betrayed  his  presence, 
subjecting  him  to  insult,  possibly  to  injury. 
Moreover,  he  was  too  conscientious  to  do  any 
thing  to  enfeeble  his  impressions,  and  unwilling 
to  alter  any  of  the  customary  conditions  under 
which  the  manifestations  were  said  to  occur. 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  but  light  from  the  street 
faintly  illuminated  the  part  of  the  room  that 
he  was  in.  He  had  set  open  every  door  in  the 
whole  interior,  above  and  below,  but  all  the  outer 
ones  were  locked  and  bolted.  Sudden  exclama 
tions  from  the  crowd  caused  him  to  spring  to  the 
window  and  look  out.  He  saw  the  figure  of  a 
man  moving  rapidly  across  the  lawn  toward  the 
building — saw  it  ascend  the  steps ;  then  a  projec 
tion  of  the  wall  concealed  it.  There  was  a  noise 
as  of  the  opening  and  closing  of  the  hall  door  ;  he 
heard  quick  heavy  footsteps  along  the  passage — 
heard  them  ascend  the  stairs — heard  them  on  the 
uncarpeted  floor  of  the  chamber  immediately 
overhead. 

Saylor  promptly  drew  his  pistol,  and,  groping 
his  way  up  the  stairs,  entered  the  chamber,  dimly 
lighted  from  the  street.  No  one  was  there.  He 
heard  footsteps  in  an  adjoining  room  and  entered 
that.  It  was  black-dark  and  silent.  He  struck 
his  foot  against  some  object  on  the  floor,  knelt  by 


SOME  HAUNTED  HOUSES.  283 

it,  and  passed  his  hand  over  it.  It  was  a  human 
head — that  of  a  woman.  Lifting  it  by  the  hair, 
this  iron-nerved  man  returned  to  the  half-lighted 
room  below,  carried  it  near  the  window,  and  atten 
tively  examined  it.  While  so  engaged  he  was 
half  conscious  of  the  rapid  opening  and  closing 
of  the  outer  door,  of  footfalls  sounding  all  about 
him.  He  raised  his  eyes  from  the  ghastly  object 
of  his  attention  and  saw  himself  the  center  of  a 
crowd  of  men  and  women  dimly  seen ;  the  room 
was  thronged  with  them.  He  thought  the  peo 
ple  had  broken  in. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  coolly,  "  you 

see  me  under  suspicious  circumstances,  but " 

his  voice  was  drowned  in  peals  of  laughter — such 
laughter  as  is  heard  in  asylums  for  the  insane. 
The  persons  about  him  pointed  at  the  object  in  his 
hand,  and  their  merriment  increased  as  he  dropped 
it  and  it  went  rolling  among  their  feet.  They 
danced  about  it  with  gestures  grotesque  and  at 
titudes  obscene  and  indescribable.  They  struck 
it  with  their  feet,  urging  it  about  the  room  from 
wall  to  wall ;  pushed  and  overthrew  one  another 
in  their  struggles  to  kick  it ;  cursed  and  screamed 
and  sang  snatches  of  ribald  songs  as  the  battered 
head  bounded  about  the  room  as  if  in  terror  and 
trying  to  escape.  At  last  it  shot  out  of  the  door 
into  the  hall,  followed  by  all  with  tumultuous 
haste.  That  moment  the  door  closed  with  a  sharp 
concussion.  Saylor  was  alone,  in  dead  silence. 


284  CAN-  SUCH   THINGS  BE! 

Carefully  putting  away  his  pistol,  which  all 
the  time  he  had  held  in  his  hand,  he  went  to  the 
windows  and  looked  out.  The  street  was  de 
serted  and  silent ;  the  lamps  were  extinguished  ; 
the  roofs  and  chimneys  of  the  houses  were  sharply 
outlined  against  the  dawn-light  in  the  east.  He 
left  the  house,  the  door  yielding  easily  to  his 
hand,  and  walked  to  the  Commercial  office.  The 
city  editor  was  still  in  his  office — asleep.  Saylor 
waked  him  and  said  quietly :  "  I  have  been  at  the 
haunted  house." 

The  editor  stared  blankly  as  if  not  wholly 
awake.  "  Good  God  !  "  he  cried,  "  are  you  Say 
lor?" 

"Yes— why  not?" 

The  editor  made  no  answer,  but  continued 
staring. 

"  I  passed  the  night  there — it  seems,"  said 
Saylor. 

"  They  say  that  things  were  uncommonly  quiet 
out  there,"  the  editor  said,  trifling  with  a  paper 
weight  upon  which  he  had  dropped  his  eyes, 
"  did  anything  occur?  " 

"  Nothing  whatever." 


THE  THING  AT  NOLAN. 

To  the  south  of  where  the  road  between  Lees- 
ville  and  Hardy,  in  the  State  of  Missouri,  crosses 
the  East  Fork  of  May  Creek  stands  an  abandoned 
house.  Nobody  has  lived  in  it  since  the  summer 
of  1879,  and  it  is  fast  going  to  pieces.  For  some 
three  years  before  the  date  mentioned  it  was  occu 
pied  by  the  family  of  Charles  May,  from  one  of 
whose  ancestors  the  creek  near  which  it  stands 
took  its  name.  Mr.  May's  family  consisted  of  a 
wife,  an  adult  son,  and  two  young  girls.  The 
son's  name  was  John — the  names  of  the  daugh 
ters  are  unknown  to  the  writer  of  this  sketch. 

John  May  was  of  a  morose  and  surly  disposi 
tion,  not  easily  moved  to  anger,  but  having  an 
uncommon  gift  of  sullen,  implacable  hate.  His 
father  was  quite  otherwise  ;  of  a  sunny,  jovial  dis 
position,  but  with  a  quick,  hot  temper,  like  a  sud 
den  flame  which,  kindled  in  a  wisp  of  straw,  con 
sumes  it  in  a  flash  and  is  no  more.  He  cherished 
no  resentments  and,  his  anger  gone,  was  quick  to 
make  overtures  for  reconciliation.  He  had  a 
brother  living  near  by  who  was  unlike  him  in 
respect  of  all  this,  and  it  was  a  current  witticism 
in  the  neighborhood  that  John  had  inherited  his 
disposition  from  his  uncle. 


286  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

One  day  a  misunderstanding  arose  between 
father  and  son,  harsh  words  ensued,  and  the 
father  struck  the  son  full  in  the  face  with  his  fist. 
John  quietly  wiped  away  the  blood  that  followed 
the  blow,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  already  penitent 
offender,  and  said  with  cold  composure,  "  You  will 
die  for  that." 

The  words  were  overheard  by  two  brothers 
named  Jackson,  who  were  approaching  the  men 
at  the  moment ;  but  seeing  them  engaged  in 
a  quarrel  they  retired,  apparently  unobserved. 
Charles  May  afterward  related  the  unfortunate 
occurrence  to  his  wife  and  explained  that  he  had 
apologized  to  the  son  for  the  hasty  blow,  but 
without  avail ;  the  young  man  not  only  rejected 
his  overtures,  but  refused  to  withdraw  his  terrible 
threat.  Nevertheless  there  was  no  open  rupture 
of  relations:  John  continued  living  with  the 
family,  and  things  went  on  very  much  as  before. 

One  Sunday  morning  in  June,  1879,  about  two 
weeks  after  what  has  been  related,  May,  senior, 
left  the  house  immediately  after  breakfast,  taking 
a  spade.  He  said  he  was  going  to  make  an 
excavation  at  a  certain  spring  in  a  wood  about  a 
mile  away,  so  that  the  cattle  could  obtain  water. 
John  remained  in  the  house  for  some  hours, 
variously  occupied  in  shaving  himself,  writing 
letters,  and  reading  a  newspaper.  His  manner 
was  very  nearly  what  it  usually  was — perhaps  he 
was  a  trifle  more  sullen  and  surly. 


SOME  HAUNTED  HOUSES.  287 

At  two  o'clock  he  left  the  house.  At  five  he 
returned.  For  some  reason  not  connected  with 
any  interest  in  his  movements,  and  which  is  not 
now  recalled,  the  time  of  his  departure  and  that 
of  his  return  were  noted  by  his  mother  and  sis 
ters,  as  was  attested  at  his  trial  for  murder.  It 
was  observed  that  his  clothing  was  wet  in  spots, 
as  if  (so  the  prosecution  pointed  out)  he  had  been 
removing  blood-stains  from  it.  His  manner  was 
strange,  his  look  wild.  He  complained  of  illness, 
and,  going  to  his  room,  took  to  his  bed. 

May,  senior,  did  not  return.  Late  that  evening 
the  nearest  neighbors  were  aroused,  and  during 
that  night  and  the  following  day  a  search  was 
prosecuted  through  the  wood  where  the  spring 
was.  It  resulted  in  little  but  the  discovery  of 
both  men's  footprints  in  the  clay  about  the  spring. 
John  May  in  the  meantime  had  grown  rapidly 
worse  with  what  the  local  physician  called  brain 
fever,  and  in  his  delirium  raved  of  murder,  but 
did  not  say  whom  he  conceived  to  have  been 
murdered,  nor  whom  he  imagined  to  have  done 
the  deed.  But  his  threat  was  recalled  by  the 
brothers  Jackson,  and  he  was  arrested  on  suspi 
cion  and  a  deputy  sheriff  put  in  charge  of  him  at 
his  home.  Public  opinion  ran  strongly  against 
him,  and  but  for  his  illness  he  would  probably 
have  been  hanged  by  a  mob.  As  it  was,  a  meet 
ing  of  the  neighbors  was  held  on  Tuesday  and  a 
committee  appointed  to  watch  the  case  and  take 


288  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

such  action  at  any  time  as  the  circumstances 
might  seem  to  warrant. 

On  Wednesday  all  was  changed.  From  the 
town  of  Nolan,  eight  miles  away,  came  a  story 
which  put  a  quite  different  aspect  upon  the  matter. 
Nolan  consists  of  a  schoolhouse,  a  blacksmith's 
shop,  a  "  store,"  and  a  half-dozen  dwellings. 
The  store  was  kept  by  one  Henry  Odell,  a  cousin 
of  the  elder  May.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  Sun 
day  of  May's  disappearance  Mr.  Odell  and  four  of 
his  neighbors,  men  of  credibility,  were  sitting  in 
the  store  smoking  and  talking.  It  was  a  warm 
day,  and  both  the  front  and  the  back  door  were 
open.  At  about  three  o'clock  Charles  May,  who 
was  well  known  to  three  of  them,  entered  at  the 
front  door  and  passed  out  at  the  rear.  He  was 
without  hat  or  coat.  He  did  not  look  at  them 
nor  return  their  greeting,  a  circumstance  which 
did  not  surprise,  for  he  was  evidently  seriously 
hurt.  Above  the  left  eyebrow  was  a  wound — a 
deep  gash  from  which  the  blood  had  flowed, 
covering  the  whole  left  side  of  the  face  and  neck 
and  saturating  his  light-gray  shirt.  Oddly  enough, 
the  thought  uppermost  in  the  minds  of  all  was 
that  he  had  been  fighting  and  was  going  to  the 
brook  that  ran  directly  back  of  the  store,  to  wash 
himself. 

Perhaps  there  was  a  feeling  of  delicacy — a 
backwoods  etiquette  which  restrained  them  from 
following  him  to  offer  assistance ;  the  court  rec- 


SOME  HAUNTED  HOUSES.  289 

ords,  from  which,  mainly,,  this  narrative  is  drawn, 
are  silent  as  to  anything  but  the  fact.  They 
waited  for  him  to  return,  but  he  did  not  return. 
Bordering  the  brook  behind  the  store  is  a  forest 
extending  for  six  miles  back  to  the  Medicine 
Lodge  Hills.  As  soon  as  it  became  known  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  missing  man's  dwelling's 
that  he  had  been  seen  in  Nolan,  there  was  a 
marked  alteration  in  public  sentiment  and  feeling. 
The  vigilance  committee  went  out  of  existence 
without  the  formality  of  a  resolution.  Search 
along  the  wooded  bottom  lands  of  May  Creek 
was  stopped,  and  nearly  the  entire  male  popula- 
tion  of  the  region  took  to  beating  the  bush  about 
Nolan  and  in  the  Medicine  Lodge  Hills.  But 
the  missing  man  was  not  found. 

One  of  the  strangest  circumstances  of  this 
strange  case  is  the  formal  indictment  and  trial  of 
a  man  for  murder  of  one  whose  body  no  human 
being  professed  to  have  seen — one  not  known  to  be 
dead.  We  are  all  more  or  less  familiar  with  the 
vagaries  and  eccentricities  of  frontier  law,  but  this 
instance,  it  is  thought,  is  unique.  However  that 
may  be,  it  is  of  record  that  on  recovering  from 
his  illness  John  May  was  indicted  for  the  murder 
of  his  missing  father.  Counsel  for  the  defense 
appears  not  to  have  demurred,  and  the  case  was 
tried  on  its  merits.  The  prosecution  was  spirit 
less  and  perfunctory ;  the  defense  easily  estab 
lished — with  regard  to  the  deceased — an  alibi. 


290  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

If  during  the  time  in  which  John  May  must  have 
killed  Charles  May,  if  he  had  killed  him  at  all, 
Charles  May  was  miles  away  from  where  John 
May  must  have  been,  it  is  plain  that  the  deceased 
must  have  come  to  his  death  at  the  hands  of 
someone  else. 

John  May  was  acquitted,  immediately  left  the 
country,  and  has  never  been  heard  of  from  that 
day.  Shortly  afterward  his  mother  and  sisters 
removed  to  St.  Louis.  The  farm  having  passed 
into  the  possession  of  a  man  who  owns  the  land 
adjoining  and  has  a  dwelling  of  his  own,  the  May 
house  has  ever  since  been  vacant,  and  has  the 
somber  reputation  of  being  haunted. 

One  day  in  September,  1879,  directly  after  the 
May  family  had  left  the  country,  some  boys,  play 
ing  in  the  woods  along  May  Creek,  found  con 
cealed  under  a  mass  of  dead  leaves,  but  partly 
exposed  by  the  rooting  of  hogs,  a  spade  nearly 
new  and  quite  bright,  except  a  spot  on  one  edge, 
which  was  rusted  and  stained  with  blood.  The 
implement  had  the  initials  C.  M.  cut  into  the 
handle. 

This  discovery  renewed,  in  some  degree,  the 
public  excitement  of  a  few  months  before.  The 
earth  near  the  spot  where  the  spade  was  found 
was  carefully  examined,  and  the  result  was  the 
finding  of  the  dead  body  of  a  man.  It  had  been 
buried  under  two  or  three  feet  of  soil  and  the  spot 
covered  with  a  layer  of  dead  leaves  and  twigs. 


SOME  HAUNTED  HOUSES.  291 

There  was  but  little  decomposition,  a  fact  at 
tributed  to  some  preservative  property  in  the 
mineral-bearing  soil. 

Above  the  left  eyebrow  was  a  wound — a  deep 
gash  from  which  blood  had  flowed,  covering  the 
whole  left  side  of  the  face  and  neck  and  saturat 
ing  the  light-gray  shirt.  The  skull  had  been  cut 
through  by  the  blow.  The  body  was  that  of 
Charles  May. 

But  what  was  it  that  passed  through  Mr.  Odell's 
store  at  Nolan  ? 


BODIES   OF   THE   DEAD. 


THAT  OF  GRANNY  MAGONE. 

ABOUT  ten  miles  to  the  southeast  of  Whites- 
burg,  Ky.,  in  a  little  "  cove  "  of  the  Cumberland 
mountains,  lived  for  many  years  an  old  woman 
named  Sarah  (or  Mary)  Magone.  Her  house,  built 
of  logs  and  containing  but  two  rooms,  was  a  mile 
and  a  half  distant  from  any  other,  in  the  wildest 
part  of  the  "  cove,"  entirely  surrounded  by  forest 
except  on  one  side,  where  a  little  field,  or 
"patch,"  of  about  a  half-acre  served  her  for  a 
vegetable  garden.  How  she  subsisted  nobody 
exactly  knew;  she  was  reputed  to  be  a  miser  with 
a  concealed  hoard  ;  she  certainly  paid  for  what 
few  articles  she  procured  on  her  rare  visits  to  the 
village  store.  Many  of  her  ignorant  neighbors 
believed  her  to  be  a  witch,  or  thought,  at  least, 
that  she  possessed  some  kind  of  supernatural 
powers.  In  November,  1881,  she  died,  and  fortu 
nately  enough,  the  body  was  found  while  yet 
warm  by  a  passing  hunter,  who  locked  the  door 
of  the  cabin  and  conveyed  the  news  to  the  nearest 
settlement. 

293 


294  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

Several  persons  living  in  the  vicinity  at  once 
went  to  the  cabin  to  prepare  for  her  burial ; 
others  were  to  follow  the  next  day  with  a 
coffin  and  whatever  else  was  needful.  Among 
those  who  first  went  was  the  Rev.  Elias  Atney, 
a  Methodist  minister  of  Whitesburg,  who  hap 
pened  to  be  in  the  neighborhood  visiting  a  rela 
tion.  He  was  to  conduct  the  funeral  services 
on  the  following  day.  Mr.  Atney  is,  or  was,  well 
known  in  Whitesburg  and  all  that  country  as  a 
good  and  pious  man  of  good  birth  and  education. 
He  was  closely  related  to  the  Marshalls  and 
several  other  families  of  distinction.  It  is  from 
him  that  the  particulars  here  related  were  learned  ; 
and  the  account  is  confirmed  by  the  affidavits 
of  John  Hershaw,  William  C.  Wrightman,  and 
Catharine  Doub,  residents  of  the  vicinity  and 
eye-witnesses. 

The  body  of  "  Granny "  Magone  had  been 
"  laid  out "  on  a  wide  plank  supported  by  two 
chairs  at  the  end  of  the  principal  room,  opposite 
the  fireplace,  and  the  persons  mentioned  were 
acting  as  "  watchers,"  according  to  the  local  cus 
tom.  A  bright  fire  on  the  hearth  lighted  one  end 
of  the  room  brilliantly,  the  other  dimly.  The 
watchers  sat  about  the  fire,  talking  in  subdued 
tones,  when  a  sudden  noise  in  the  direction  of  the 
corpse  caused  them  all  to  turn  and  look.  In  a 
black  shadow  near  the  remains,  they  saw  two 
glowing  eyes  staring  fixedly ;  and  before  they 


BODIES  OF  THE  DEAD.  295 

could  do  more  than  rise,  uttering  exclamations  of 
alarm,  a  large  black  cat  leaped  upon  the  body  and 
fastened  its  teeth  into  the  cloth  covering  the  face. 
Instantly  the  right  hand  of  the  dead  was  violently 
raised  from  the  side,  seized  the  cat,  and  hurled  it 
against  the  wall,  whence  it  fell  to  the  floor,  and 
then  dashed  wildly  through  an  open  window  into 
the  outer  darkness,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

Inconceivably  horrified,  the  watchers  stood  a 
moment  speechless;  but  finally,  with  returning 
courage,  approached  the  body.  The  face-cloth 
lay  upon  the  floor;  the  cheek  was  terribly  torn; 
the  right  arm  hung  stiffly  over  the  side  of  the 
plank.  There  was  not  a  sign  of  life.  They 
chafed  the  forehead,  the  withered  cheeks  and 
neck.  They  carried  the  body  to  the  heat  of  the 
fire  and  worked  upon  it  for  hours :  all  in  vain. 
But  the  funeral  was  postponed  until  the  fourth 
day  brought  unmistakable  evidence  of  dissolution, 
and  poor  Granny  was  buried. 

"Ah,  but  your  eyes  deceived  you,"  said  he  to 
whom  the  reverend  gentleman  related  the  occur 
rence.  "  The  arm  was  disturbed  by  the  efforts 
of  the  cat,  which,  taking  sudden  fright,  leaped 
blindly  against  the  wall." 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  the  clenched  right  hand, 
with  its  long  nails,  was  full  of  black  fur." 


A   LIGHT   SLEEPER. 

JOHN  HOSKIN,  living  in  San  Francisco,  had  a 
beautiful  wife,  to  whom  he  was  devotedly  at 
tached.  In  the  spring  of  1871  Mrs.  Hoskin  went 
East  to  visit  her  relations  in  Springfield,  111., 
where,  a  week  after  her  arrival,  she  suddenly  died 
of  some  disease  of  the  heart ;  at  least  the  physi 
cian  said  so.  Mr.  Hoskin  was  at  once  apprised  of 
his  loss,  by  telegraph,  and  he  directed  that  the 
body  be  sent  to  San  Francisco.  On  arrival  there 
the  metallic  case  containing  the  remains  was 
opened.  The  body  was  lying  on  the  right  side, 
the  right  hand  under  the  cheek,  the  other  on  the 
breast.  The  posture  was  the  perfectly  natural  one 
of  a  sleeping  child,  and  in  a  letter  to  the  deceased 
lady's  father,  Mr.  Martin  L.  Whitney  of  Spring 
field,  Mr.  Hoskin  expressed  a  grateful  sense  of 
the  thoughtfulness  that  had  so  composed  the 
remains  as  to  soften  the  suggestion  of  death.  To 
his  surprise  he  learned  from  the  father  that  noth 
ing  of  the  kind  had  been  done :  the  body  had 
been  put  in  the  casket  in  the  customary  way, 
lying  on  the  back,  with  the  arms  extended  along 
the  sides.  In  the  meantime  the  casket  had  been 
deposited  in  the  receiving  vault  at  Laurel  Hill 
Cemetery,  awaiting  the  completion  of  a  tomb. 

296 


f  THE  D£AD.  297 

Greatly  disquieted  by  this  revelation,  Hoskin 
did  not  at  once  reflect  that  the  easy  and  natural 
posture  and  placid  expression  precluded  the  idea 
of  suspended  animation,  subsequent  revival,  and 
eventual  death  by  suffocation.  He  insisted  that 
his  wife  had  been  murdered  by  medical  incom- 
petency  and  heedless  haste.  Under  the  influence 
of  this  feeling  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Whitney  again, 
expressing  in  passionate  terms  his  horror  and 
renewed  grief.  Some  days  afterward,  someone 
having  suggested  that  the  casket  had  been  opened 
en  route,  probably  in  the  hope  of  plunder,  and 
pointing  out  the  impossibility  of  the  change  hav 
ing  occurred  in  the  straitened  space  of  the  con 
fining  metal,  it  was  resolved  to  reopen  it. 

Removal  of  the  lid  disclosed  a  new  horror :  the 
body  now  lay  upon  its  left  side.  The  position 
was  cramped,  and  to  a  living  person  would  have 
been  uncomfortable.  The  face  wore  an  expres 
sion  of  pain.  Some  costly  rings  on  the  fingers 
were  undisturbed.  Overcome  by  his  emotions, 
to  which  was  now  added  a  sharp,  if  mistaken, 
remorse,  Mr.  Hoskin  lost  his  reason,  dying  years 
afterward  in  the  asylum  at  Stockton. 

A  physician  having  been  summoned,  to  assist  in 
clearing  up  the  mystery,  viewed  the  body  of  the 
dead  woman,  pronounced  life  obviously  extinct, 
and  ordered  the  casket  closed  for  the  third  and 
last  time.  "  Obviously  extinct,"  indeed :  the 
corpse  had,  in  fact,  been  embalmed  at  Springfield. 


THE   MYSTERY   OF   CHARLES 
FARQUHARSON. 

ONE  night  in  the  summer  of  1843  William 
Hayner  Gordon,  of  Philadelphia,  lay  in  his  bed 
reading  Goldsmith's  "  Traveler,"  by  the  light  of 
a  candle.  It  was  about  eleven  o'clock.  The 
room  was  in  the  third  story  of  the  house  and  had 
two  windows  looking  out  upon  Chestnut  Street ; 
there  was  no  balcony,  nothing  below  the  windows 
but  other  windows  in  a  smooth  brick  wall. 

Becoming  drowsy,  Gordon  laid  away  his  book, 
extinguished  his  candle,  and  composed  himself  to 
sleep.  A  moment  later  (as  he  afterward  averred) 
he  remembered  that  he  had  neglected  to  place 
his  watch  within  reach,  and  rose  in  the  dark  to 
get  it  from  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat,  which  he 
had  hung  on  the  back  of  a  chair  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  room,  near  one  of  the  windows.  In 
crossing,  his  foot  came  in  contact  with  some 
heavy  object  and  he  was  thrown  to  the  floor. 
Rising,  he  struck  a  match  and  lighted  his  candle. 
In  the  center  of  the  room  lay  the  corpse  of  a 
man. 

Gordon  was  no  coward,  as  he  afterward  proved 
by  his  gallant  death  upon  the  enemy's  parapet 


BODIES  OF   THE  DEAD.  299 

at  Chapultepec,  but  this  strange  apparition  of  a 
human  corpse  where  but  a  moment  before,  as  he 
believed,  there  had  been  nothing,  was  too  much 
for  his  nerves,  and  he  cried  aloud.  Henri 
Granier,  who  occupied  an  adjoining  room,  but 
had  not  retired,  came  instantly  to  Gordon's  door 
and  attempted  to  enter.  The  door  being  bolted, 
and  Gordon  too  greatly  agitated  to  open  it, 
Granier  burst  it  in. 

Gordon  was  taken  into  custody  and  an  inquest 
held,  but  what  has  been  related  was  all  that  could 
be  ascertained.  The  most  diligent  efforts  on  the 
part  of  the  police  and  the  press  failed  to  identify 
the  dead.  Physicians  testifying  at  the  inquest 
agreed  that  death  had  occurred  but  a  few  hours 
before  the  discovery,  but  none  was  able  to  divine 
the  cause  ;  all  the  organs  of  the  body  were  in  an 
apparently  healthy  condition;  there  were  no 
traces  of  either  violence  or  poison. 

Eight  or  ten  months  later  Gordon  received  a 
letter  from  Charles  Ritcher  in  Bombay,  relating 
the  death  in  that  city  of  Charles  Farquharson, 
whom  both  Gordon  and  Ritcher  had  known  when 
all  were  boys.  Enclosed  in  the  letter  was  a 
daguerreotype  of  the  deceased,  found  among  his 
effects.  As  nearly  as  the  living  can  look  like  the 
dead  it  was  an  exact  likeness  of  the  mysterious 
body  found  in  Gordon's  bedroom,  and  it  was 
with  a  strange  feeling  that  Gordon  observed  that 
the  death,  making  allowance  for  the  difference  of 


CAN  SUCH  THINGS  B£? 

time,  was  said  to  have  occurred  on  the  very  night 
of  the  adventure.  He  wrote  for  further  partic 
ulars,  with  especial  reference  to  what  disposition 
had  been  made  of  Farquharson's  body. 

"  You  know  he  turned  Parsee,"  wrote  Ritcher 
in  reply ;  "  so  his  naked  remains  were  exposed  on 
the  grating  of  the  Tower  of  Silence,  as  those  of 
all  good  Parsees  are.  I  saw  the  buzzards  fighting 
for  them  and  gorging  themselves  helpless  on  his 
fragments." 

On  some  pretense  Gordon  and  his  friends 
obtained  authority  to  open  the  dead  man's  grave. 
The  coffin  had  evidently  not  been  disturbed. 
They  unscrewed  the  lid.  The  shroud  was  a  trifle 
moldy.  There  was  no  body  nor  any  vestige  of 
one. 


DEAD   AND   "GONE." 

ON  the  morning  of  the  I4th  day  of  August, 
1872,  George  J.  Reid,  a  young  man  of  twenty- 
one  years,  living  at  Xenia,  O.,  fell  while  walking 
across  the  dining  room  in  his  father's  house.  The 
family  consisted  of  his  father,  mother,  two  sisters, 
and  a  cousin,  a  boy  of  fifteen.  All  were  present 
at  the  breakfast  table.  George  entered  the 
room,  but  instead  of  taking  his  accustomed  seat 
near  the  door  by  which  he  had  entered,  passed  it 
and  went  obliquely  toward  one  of  the  windows — 
with  what  purpose  no  one  knows.  He  had  passed 
the  table  but  a  few  steps  when  he  fell  heavily  to 
the  floor  and  did  not  again  breathe.  The  body 
was  carried  into  a  bedroom  and,  after  vain  efforts 
at  resuscitation  by  the  stricken  family,  left  lying 
on  the  bed  with  composed  limbs  and  covered  face. 

In  the  meantime  the  boy  had  been  hastily  dis 
patched  for  a  physician,  who  arrived  some  twenty 
minutes  after  the  death.  He  afterward  remem 
bered  as  an  uncommon  circumstance  that  when  he 
arrived  the  weeping  relations — father,  mother, 
and  two  sisters — were  all  in  the  room  out  of 
which  the  bedroom  door  opened,  and  that  the 
door  was  closed.  There  was  no  other  door  to  the 
bedroom0  This  door  was  at  once  opened  by  the 


302  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

father  of  the  deceased,  and  as  the  physician 
passed  through  it  he  observed  the  dead  man's 
clothing  lying  in  a  heap  on  the  floor,  He  saw, 
too,  the  outlines  of  the  body  under  the  sheet  that 
had  been  thrown  over  it ;  and  the  profile  was 
plainly  discernible  under  the  face-cloth,  clear-cut 
and  sharp,  as  profiles  of  the  dead  seem  always  to 
be.  He  approached  and  lifted  the  cloth.  There 
was  nothing  there.  He  pulled  away  the  sheet. 
Nothing. 

The  family  had  followed  him  into  the  room. 
At  this  astonishing  discovery — if  so  it  may  be 
called — they  looked  at  one  another,  at  the  physi- 
can,  at  the  bed,  in  speechless  amazement,  forget 
ting  to  weep.  A  moment  later  the  three  ladies 
required  the  physician's  care.  The  father's  con 
dition  was  but  little  better ;  he  stood  in  a  stupor, 
muttering  inarticulately  and  staring  like  an  idiot. 

Having  restored  the  ladies  to  a  sense  of  their 
surroundings,  the  physician  went  to  the  window — 
the  only  one  the  room  had,  opening  upon  a  gar 
den.  It  was  locked  on  the  inside  with  the  usual 
fastening  attached  to  the  bottom  bar  of  the  upper 
sash  and  engaging  with  the  lower. 

No  inquest  was  held — there  was  nothing  to 
hold  it  on ;  but  the  physician  and  many  others 
who  were  curious  as  to  this  occurrence  made  the 
most  searching  investigation  into  all  the  circum 
stances  ;  all  without  result.  George  Reid  was 
dead  and  "gone,"  and  that  is  all  that  is  known  to 
this  day. 


A   COLD   NIGHT. 

THE  first  day's  battle  at  Stone  River  had  been 
fought,  resulting  in  disaster  to  the  Federal  army, 
which  had  been  driven  from  its  original  ground  at 
every  point  except  its  extreme  left.  The  weary 
troops  at  this  point  lay  behind  a  railway  embank 
ment  to  which  they  had  retired,  and  which  had 
served  them  during  the  last  hours  of  the  fight  as 
a  breastwork  to  repel  repeated  charges  of  the 
enemy.  Behind  the  line  the  ground  was  open 
and  rocky.  Great  bowlders  lay  about  everywhere, 
and  among  them  lay  many  of  the  Federal  dead, 
where  they  had  been  carried  out  of  the  way. 
Before  the  embankment  the  dead  of  both  armies 
lay  more  thickly,  but  they  had  not  been  disturbed. 

Among  the  dead  in  the  bowlders  lay  one  whom 
nobody  seemed  to  know — a  Federal  sergeant,  shot 
directly  in  the  center  of  the  forehead.  One  of 
our  surgeons,  from  idle  curiosity,  or  possibly  with 
a  view  to  the  amusement  of  a  group  of  officers 
during  a  lull  in  the  engagement  (we  needed  some 
thing  to  divert  our  minds),  had  pushed  his  probe 
clean  through  the  head.  The  body  lay  on  its 
back,  its  chin  in  the  air,  and  with  straightened 
limbs,  as  rigid  as  steel ;  frost  on  its  white  face 

303 


304  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

and  in  its  beard  and  hair.  Some  Christian  soul 
had  covered  it  with  a  blanket,  but  when  the 
night  became  pretty  sharp  a  companion  of  the 
writer  removed  this,  and  we  lay  beneath  it  our 
selves. 

With  the  exception  of  our  pickets,  who  had 
been  posted  well  out  in  front  of  the  embankment, 
every  man  lay  silent.  Conversation  was  forbid 
den  ;  to  have  made  a  fire,  or  even  struck  a  match 
to  light  a  pipe  would  have  been  a  grave  offense. 
Stamping  horses,  moaning  wounded — everything 
that  made  a  noise  had  been  sent  to  the  rear ;  the 
silence  was  absolute.  Those  whom  the  chill  pre 
vented  from  sleeping  nevertheless  reclined  as 
they  shivered,  or  sat  with  their  hands  on  their 
arms,  suffering  but  making  no  sign.  Everyone 
had  lost  friends,  and  all  expected  death  on  the 
morrow.  These  matters  are  mentioned  to  show 
the  improbability  of  anyone  going  about  during 
those  solemn  hours  to  commit  a  ghastly  practical 
joke. 

When  the  dawn  broke  the  sky  was  still  clear. 
"  We  shall  have  a  warm  day,"  the  writer's  com 
panion  whispered  as  we  rose  in  the  gray  light; 
"  let's  give  back  the  poor  devil  his  blanket." 

The  sergeant's  body  lay  in  the  same  place,  two 
yards  away.  But  not  in  the  same  attitude.  It 
was  upon  its  right  side.  The  knees  were  drawn 
up  nearly  to  the  breast,  both  hands  thrust  to  the 
wrist  between  the  buttons  of  the  jacket,  the 


BODIES  OF   THE  DEAD.  305 

collar  of  which  was  turned  up,  concealing  the 
ears.  The  shoulders  were  elevated,  the  head  was 
retracted,  the  chin  rested  on  the  collar  bone. 
The  posture  was  that  of  one  suffering  from 
intense  cold.  But  for  what  had  been  previously 
observed — but  for  the  ghastly  evidence  of  the 
bullet-hole — one  might  have  thought  the  man 
had  died  of  cold. 


A   CREATURE   OF   HABIT. 

AT  Hawley's  Bar,  a  mining  camp  near  Virginia 
City,  Mont.,  a  gambler  named  Henry  Graham, 
but  commonly  known  as  "Gray  Hank,"  met  a 
miner  named  Dreyfuss  one  day,  with  whom  he 
had  had  a  dispute  the  previous  night  about  a 
game  of  cards,  and  asked  him  into  a  barroom  to 
have  a  drink.  The  unfortunate  miner,  taking  this 
as  an  overture  of  peace,  gladly  accepted.  They 
stood  at  the  counter,  and  while  Dreyfuss  was  in 
the  act  of  drinking  Graham  shot  him  dead.  This 
was  in  1865.  Within  an  hour  after  the  murder 
Graham  was  in  the  hands  of  the  vigilantes,  and 
that  evening  at  sunset,  after  a  fair,  if  informal, 
trial,  he  was  hanged  to  the  limb  of  a  tree  which 
grew  upon  a  little  eminence  within  sight  of  the 
whole  camp.  The  original  intention  had  been  to 
"  string  him  up,"  as  is  customary  in  such  affairs ; 
and  with  a  view  to  that  operation  the  long  rope 
had  been  thrown  over  the  limb,  while  a  dozen 
pairs  of  hands  were  ready  to  hoist  away.  For 
some  reason  this  plan  was  abandoned  ;  the  free 
end  of  the  rope  was  made  fast  to  a  bush  and  the 
victim  compelled  to  stand  on  the  back  of  a  horse, 
which  at  the  cut  of  a  whip  sprang  from  under 

3PO 


BODIES  OF   THE   DEAD.  307 

him,  leaving  him  swinging.  When  steadied,  his 
feet  were  about  eighteen  inches  from  the  earth. 

The  body  remained  suspended  for  exactly  half 
an  hour,  the  greater  part  of  the  crowd  remaining 
about  it:  then  the  "judge"  ordered  it  taken 
down.  The  rope  was  untied  from  the  bush,  and 
two  men  stood  by  to  lower  away.  The  moment 
the  feet  came  squarely  upon  the  ground  the  men 
engaged  in  lowering,  thinking  doubtless  that 
those  standing  about  the  body  had  hold  of  it  to 
support  it,  let  go  the  rope.  The  body  at  once 
ran  quickly  forward  toward  the  main  part  of  the 
crowd,  the  rope  paying  out  as  it  went.  The 
head  rolled  from  side  to  side,  the  eyes  and  tongue 
protruding,  the  face  ghastly  purple,  the  lips 
covered  with  bloody  froth.  With  cries  of  horror 
the  crowd  ran  hither  and  thither,  stumbling,  fall- 
ing  over  one  another,  cursing.  In  and  out  among 
them — over  the  fallen,  coming  into  collision  with 
others,  the  horrible  dead  man  "  pranced,"  his  feet 
lifted  so  high  at  each  step  that  his  knees  struck 
his  breast,  his  tongue  swinging  like  that  of  a  pant- 
ting  dog,  the  foam  flying  in  flakes  from  his 
swollen  lips.  The  deepening  twilight  added  its 
terror  to  the  scene,  and  men  fled  from  the  spot, 
not  daring  to  look  behind. 

Straight  into  this  confusion  from  the  outskirts 
of  the  crowd  walked  with  rapid  steps  the  tall  fig 
ure  of  a  man  whom  all  who  saw  instantly  recog 
nized  as  a  master  spirit.  This  was  Dr.  Arnold 


308  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

Spier,  who  with  two  other  physicians  had  pro 
nounced  the  man  dead  and  had  been  retiring  to 
the  camp.  He  moved  as  directly  toward  the  dead 
man  as  the  now  somewhat  less  rapid  and  erratic 
movements  of  the  latter  would  permit,  and  seized 
him  in  his  arms.  Encouraged  by  this,  a  score  of 
men  sprang  shouting  to  the  free  end  of  the  rope, 
which  had  not  been  drawn  entirely  over  the  limb, 
and  laid  hold  of  it,  intending  to  make  a  finish  of 
their  work.  They  ran  with  it  toward  the  bush  to 
which  it  had  been  fastened,  but  there  was  no  re 
sistance  ;  the  physician  had  cut  it  from  the  mur 
derer's  neck.  In  a  moment  the  body  was  lying 
on  its  back,  with  composed  limbs  and  face  up 
turned  to  the  kindling  stars,  in  the  motionless 
rigidity  appropriate  to  death.  The  hanging  had 
been  done  well  enough — the  neck  was  broken. 

"  The  dead  are  creatures  of  habit,"  said  Dr. 
Spier.  "  A  corpse  which  when  on  its  feet  will 
walk  and  run  will  lie  still  when  placed  on  its 
back." 


-MYSTERIOUS    DISAPPEAR- 
ANCES." 


THE   DIFFICULTY  OF  CROSSING  A  FIELD. 

ONE  morning  in  July,  1854,  a  planter  named 
Williamson,  living  six  miles  from  Selma,  Ala.,  was 
sitting  with  his  wife  and  a  child  on  the  veranda 
of  his  dwelling.  Immediately  in  front  of  the 
house  was  a  lawn,  perhaps  fifty  yards  in  extent, 
between  the  house  and  public  road,  or,  as  it  was 
called,  the  "  pike."  Beyond  this  road  lay  a  close- 
cropped  pasture  of  some  ten  acres,  level  and 
without  a  tree,  rock,  or  any  natural  or  artificial 
object  on  its  surface.  At  the  time  there  was  not 
even  a  domestic  animal  in  the  field.  In  another 
field,  beyond  the  pasture,  a  dozen  slaves  were  at 
work  under  an  overseer. 

Throwing  away  the  stump  of  a  cigar,  the 
planter  rose,  saying :  "  I  forgot  to  tell  Andrew 
about  those  horses."  Andrew  was  the  overseer. 

Williamson  strolled  leisurely  down  the  gravel 
walk,  plucking  a  flower  as  he  went,  passed  across 
the  road  and  into  the  pasture,  pausing  a  moment 
as  he  closed  the  gate  leading  into  it,  to  greet  a 

309 


3 1  o  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE  ? 

passing  neighbor,  Mr.  Armour  Wren,  who  lived 
on  the  adjoining  plantation.  Mr.  Wren  was  in  an 
open  carriage  with  his  son  James,  a  lad  of  thirteen. 
When  he  had  driven  some  two  hundred  yards 
from  the  point  of  meeting,  Mr.  Wren  said  to  his 
son :  "  I  forgot  to  tell  Mr.  Williamson  about  those 
horses." 

Mr.  Wren  had  sold  Mr.  Williamson  some  horses, 
which  were  to  have  been  sent  for  that  day,  but 
for  some  reason  not  now  remembered  it  would  be 
inconvenient  to  deliver  them  until  the  morrow. 
The  coachman  was  directed  to  drive  back,  and  as 
the  vehicle  turned,  Williamson  was  seen  by  all 
three,  walking  leisurely  across  the  pasture.  At 
that  moment  one  of  the  coach  horses  stumbled 
and  came  near  falling.  It  had  no  more  than 
fairly  recovered  itself  when  James  Wren  cried : 
"  Why,  father,  what  has  become  of  Mr.  William 
son  ?  " 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  narrative  to  an 
swer  that  question. 

Mr.  Wren's  account  of  the  matter,  given  under 
oath  in  the  course  of  legal  proceedings  relating  to 
the  Williamson  estate,  is  as  follows  : 

"  My  son's  exclamation  caused  me  to  look 
toward  the  spot  where  I  had  seen  the  deceased 
[sic]  an  instant  before,  but  he  was  not  there,  nor 
was  he  anywhere  visible.  I  cannot  say  that,  at 
the  moment,  I  was  greatly  startled,  or  realized  the 


"MYSTERIOUS  DISAPPEARANCES."         31! 

gravity  of  the  occurrence,  though  I  thought  it 
singular.  My  son,  however,  was  greatly  astonished, 
and  kept  repeating  his  question  in  different  forms 
until  we  arrived  at  the  gate.  My  black  boy  Sam 
was  similarly  affected,  even  in  a  greater  degree, 
but  I  reckon  more  by  my  son's  manner  than  by 
anything  he  had  himself  observed.  [This  sentence 
in  the  testimony  was  stricken  out.]  As  we  got 
out  of  the  carriage  at  the  gate  of  the  field,  and 
while  Sam  was  hanging  [sic]  the  team  to  the  fence, 
Mrs.  Williamson,  with  her  child  in  her  arms  and 
followed  by  several  servants,  came  running  down 
the  walk  in  great  excitement,  crying :  '  He  is 
gone,  he  is  gone !  O  God !  what  an  awful 
thing !  '  and  many  other  such  exclamations,  which 
I  do  not  distinctly  recollect.  I  got  from  them 
the  impression  that  they  related  to  something 
more  than  the  mere  disappearance  of  her  husband, 
even  if  that  had  occurred  before  her  eyes.  Her 
manner  was  wild,  but  not  more  so,  I  think,  than 
was  natural  under  the  circumstances.  I  have  no 
reason  to  think  she  had  at  that  time  lost  her 
mind.  I  have  never  since  seen  nor  heard  of  Mr. 
Williamson/' 

This  testimony  was,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  corroborated  in  almost  every  particular 
by  the  only  other  eye-witness  (if  that  is  a  proper 
term),  the  lad  James.  Mrs.  Williamson  had  lost 
her  reason,  and  the  servants  were,  of  course,  not 


312  CAN  SUCH   THINGS  BE? 

competent  to  testify.  The  boy  James  Wren  had 
delared  at  first  that  he  saw  the  disappearance, 
but  there  is  nothing  of  this  in  his  testimony  given 
in  court.  None  of  the  hands  working  in  the  field 
to  which  Williamson  was  going  had  seen  him  at 
all,  and  the  most  rigorous  search  of  the  entire 
plantation  and  adjoining  country  failed  to  afford 
a  clew.  The  most  monstrous  and  grotesque 
fictions,  originating  with  the  blacks,  were  current 
in  that  part  of  the  State  for  many  years,  and  prob 
ably  are  to  this  day ;  but  what  has  been  here 
related  is  all  that  is  certainly  known  of  the  matter. 
The  courts  decided  that  Williamson  was  dead, 
and  his  estate  was  distributed  according  to  law. 


AN   UNFINISHED    RACE. 

JAMES  BURNE  WORSON  was  a  shoemaker  who 
lived  in  Leamington,  Warwickshire,  England. 
He  had  a  little  shop  in  one  of  the  by-ways  lead 
ing  off  the  road  to  Warwick.  In  his  humble 
sphere  he  was  esteemed  an  honest  man,  although 
like  many  of  his  class  in  English  towns  he  was 
somewhat  addicted  to  drink.  When  in  liquor  he 
would  make  foolish  wagers.  On  one  of  these  too 
frequent  occasions  he  was  boasting  of  his  prowess 
as  a  pedestrian  and  athlete,  and  the  outcome  was 
a  match  against  nature.  For  a  stake  of  one  sover 
eign  he  undertook  to  run  all  the  way  to  Coventry 
and  back,  a  distance  of  something  more  than 
forty  miles.  This  was  on  the  3d  day  of  Septem 
ber  in  1873.  He  set  out  at  once,  the  man  with 
whom  he  had  made  the  bet — whose  name  is  not 
recorded — accompanied  by  Barham  Wise,  a  linen 
draper,  and  Hamerson  Burns,  a  photographer,  I 
think,  following  in  a  light  cart  or  wagon. 

For  several  miles  Worson  went  on  very  well,  at 
an  easy  gait,  without  apparent  fatigue,  for  he  had 
really  great  powers  of  endurance  and  was  not  suffi 
ciently  intoxicated  to  enfeeble  them.  The  three 
men  in  the  wagon  kept  a  short  distance  in  the 

313 


3H  CAN  SUCH  THINGS 

rear,  giving  him  occasional  friendly  "chaff"  or 
encouragement,  as  the  spirit  moved  them.  Sud 
denly — in  the  very  middle  of  the  roadway,  not  a 
dozen  yards  from  them,  and  with  their  eyes  full 
upon  him — the  man  seemed  to  stumble,  pitched 
headlong  forward,  uttered  a  terrible  cry  and 
vanished.  He  did  not  fall  to  the  earth — he 
vanished  before  touching  it.  No  trace  of  him 
was  ever  afterward  discovered. 

After  remaining  at  and  about  the  spot  for 
some  time,  with  aimless  irresolution,  the  three 
astonished  men  returned  to  Leamington,  told 
their  story  and  were  afterward  taken  into  cus 
tody.  But  they  were  of  good  standing,  had 
always  been  considered  truthful,  were  sober  at 
the  time  of  the  occurrence,  and  nothing  ever  tran 
spired  to  discredit  their  sworn  account  of  their 
extraordinary  adventure  ;  concerning  the  truth  of 
which,  nevertheless,  public  opinion  was  divided, 
throughout  the  United  Kingdom.  If  they  had 
something  to  conceal  their  choice  of  means  is 
certainly  one  of  the  most  amazing  ever  made  by 
sane  human  beings. 


CHARLES   ASHMORE'S   TRAIL. 

THE  family  of  Christian  Ashmore  consisted  of 
his  wife,  his  mother,  two  grown  daughters,  and  a 
son  of  sixteen  years.  They  lived  in  Troy,  N.  Y., 
were  well-to-do,  respectable  people,  and  had  many 
friends,  some  of  whom,  reading  these  lines,  will 
doubtless  learn  for  the  first  time  the  extraordinary 
fate  of  the  young  man.  From  Troy  the  Ash- 
mores  moved  in  1871  or  1872  to  Richmond,  Ind., 
and  a  year  or  two  later  to  the  vicinity  of  Quincy, 
111.,  where  Mr.  Ashmore  bought  a  farm  and  lived 
on  it.  At  some  little  distance  from  the  farm 
house  is  a  spring  with  a  constant  flow  of  clear, 
cold  water,  whence  the  family  derived  its  supply 
for  domestic  use  at  all  seasons. 

On  the  evening  of  the  gih  of  November  in  1878, 
at  about  nine  o'clock,  young  Charles  Ashmore 
left  the  family  circle  about  the  hearth,  took  a  tin 
bucket,  and  started  toward  the  spring.  As  he  did 
not  return,  the  family  became  uneasy,  and  going 
to  the  door  by  which  he  had  left,  his  father 
called  repeatedly  without  receiving  an  answer. 
He  then  lighted  a  lantern  and,  with  the  eldest 
daughter,  Martha,  who  insisted  on  accompanying 
him,  went  in  search.  A  light  snow  had  fallen, 
obliterating  the  path,  but  making  the  young  man's 

3*5 


316  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

trail  conspicuous ;  each  footprint  was  plainly  de 
fined.  After  going  a  little  more  than  halfway — 
perhaps  seventy-five  yards — the  father,  who  was 
in  advance,  halted,  and,  elevating  his  lantern, 
stood  peering  intently  into  the  darkness  ahead. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  father?"  the  girl  asked. 

This  was  the  matter:  the  trail  of  the  young 
man  had  abruptly  ended,  and  all  beyond  was 
smooth,  unbroken  snow.  The  last  footprints, 
on  close  inspection,  were  as  conspicuous  as  any 
in  the  line  ;  the  very  nail-marks  were  distinctly  vis 
ible.  Mr.  Ashmore  looked  upward,  shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hat  held  between  them  and  the  lan 
tern.  The  stars  were  shining ;  there  was  not  a 
cloud  in  the  sky  ;  he  was  denied  the  explanation 
which  had  suggested  itself,  doubtful  as  it  would 
have  been — a  new  snowfall  with  a  limit  so  plainly 
defined.  Taking  a  wide  circuit  round  the  ulti 
mate  tracks,  so  as  to  leave  them  undisturbed  for 
further  examination,  the  man  proceeded  to  the 
spring,  the  girl  following,  weak  and  terrified. 
Neither  had  spoken  a  word  of  what  they  had 
observed.  The  spring  was  covered  with  ice, 
hours  old. 

Returning  to  the  house  they  noted  the  appear 
ance  of  the  snow  on  both  sides  of  the  trail  its 
entire  length.  No  tracks  led  away  from  it.  The 
morning  light  showed  nothing  more.  Smooth, 
spotless,  absolutely  unbroken,  the  shallow  snow 
lay  everywhere. 


"MYSTERIOUS  DISAPPEARANCES."         317 

Four  days  later  the  grief-stricken  mother  her 
self  went  to  the  spring  for  water.  She  came 
back  and  related  that  in  passing  the  spot  where 
the  footprints  had  ended  she  had  heard  the  voice 
of  her  son  and  had  been  eagerly  calling  to  him, 
wandering  about  the  place,  as  she  had  fancied  the 
voice  to  be  now  in  one  direction,  now  in  another, 
until  she  was  exhausted  with  fatigue  and  emotion. 
Questioned  as  to  what  the  voice  had  said,  she  was 
unable  to  say,  yet  averred  that  the  words  were 
perfectly  distinct.  In  a  moment  the  entire 
family  was  at  the  place,  but  nothing  was  heard, 
and  the  voice  was  believed  to  be  an  hallucination 
caused  by  the  mother's  great  anxiety  and  her  dis 
ordered  nerves.  But  for  months  afterward,  at 
irregular  intervals  of  several  days,  the  voice  was 
heard  by  the  various  members  of  the  family  and 
by  others.  All  declared  it  unmistakably  the 
voice  of  Charles  Ashmore  ;  all  were  agreed  that  it 
seemed  to  come  from  a  great  distance,  faintly,  yet 
with  perfect  distinctness  of  articulation ;  yet 
none  could  determine  its  direction  nor  repeat  its 
words.  The  intervals  of  silence  grew  longer  and 
longer,  the  voice  fainter  and  farther,  and  by  mid 
summer  it  was  heard  no  more. 

If  anybody  knows  the  fate  of  Charles  Ashmore 
it  is  probably  his  mother.  She  is  dead. 


In  connection  with  this  subject  of  "  mysterious 
disappearance  " — of  which  every  memory  is  stored 


3 1 8  CAN  S UCH  THINGS  BE  ? 

with  abundant  example — it  is  pertinent  to  note 
the  belief  of  Dr.  Hern  of  Leipsic  ;  not  by  way  of 
explanation,  unless  the  reader  choose  to  take  it 
so,  but  on  account  of  its  intrinsic  interest  as  a 
singular  speculation.  This  distinguished  scientist 
has  expounded  his  views  in  a  book  entitled 
"  Verschwinden  und  Seine  Theorie,"  which  has  at 
tracted  some  attention,  "  particularly,"  says  one 
writer,  "  among  the  followers  of  Hegel,  and  mathe 
maticians  who  hold  to  the  actual  existence  of  a 
so-called  non-Euclidean  space — that  is  to  say,  of 
a  space  which  has  more  dimensions  than  length, 
breadth,  and  thickness — a  space  in  which  it  would 
be  possible  to  tie  a  knot  in  an  endless  cord  and 
to  turn  a  rubber  ball  inside  out  without  'a  solu 
tion  of  its  continuity/  or  in  other  words,  without 
breaking  or  cracking  it." 

Dr.  Hern  believes  that  in  the  visible  world 
there  are  void  places — vacua,  and  something 
more- — holes,  as  it  were,  through  which  animate 
and  inanimate  objects  may  fall  into  the  invisible 
world  and  be  seen  and  heard  no  more.  The 
theory  is  something  like  this :  Space  is  pervaded 
by  luminiferous  ether,  which  is  a  material  thing — 
as  much  a  substance  as  air  or  water,  though  al 
most  infinitely  more  attenuated.  All  force,  all 
forms  of  energy  must  be  propagated  in  this; 
every  process  must  take  place  in  it  which  takes 
place  at  all.  But  let  us  suppose  that  cavities 
exist  in  this  otherwise  universal  medium,  as 


"MYSTERIOUS  DISAPPEARANCES."         319 

caverns  exist  in  the  earth,  or  cells  in  a  Swiss 
cheese.  In  such  a  cavity  there  would  be  abso 
lutely  nothing.  It  would  be  such  a  vacuum  as 
cannot  be  artificially  produced ;  for  if  we  pump 
the  air  from  a  receiver  there  remains  the  luminif- 
erous  ether.  Through  one  of  these  cavities  light 
could  not  pass,  for  there  would  be  nothing  to 
bear  it.  Sound  could  not  proceed  from  it ;  noth 
ing  could  be  felt  in  it.  It  would  not  have  a 
single  one  of  the  conditions  necessary  to  the 
action  of  any  of  our  senses.  In  such  a  void,  in 
short,  nothing  whatever  could  occur.  Now,  in 
the  words  of  the  writer  before  quoted — the 
learned  doctor  himself  nowhere  puts  it  so  con 
cisely  :  "  A  man  inclosed  in  such  a  closet  could 
neither  see  nor  be  seen ;  neither  hear  nor  be 
heard ;  neither  feel  nor  be  felt ;  neither  live  nor 
die,  for  both  life  and  death  are  processes  which 
can  take  place  only  where  there  is  force,  and  in 
empty  space  no  force  could  exist."  Are  these 
the  awful  conditions  (some  will  ask)  under  which 
the  parents  and  friends  of  Charlie  Ross  and  others 
of  the  lost  are  to  think  of  them  as  existing,  and 
doomed  forever  to  exist  ? 

Baldly  and  imperfectly  as  here  stated,  Dr. 
Hern's  theory,  in  so  far  as  it  professes  to  be  an 
adequate  explanation  of  "  mysterious  disappear 
ances,"  is  open  to  many  obvious  objections ;  to 
fewer  as  he  states  it  himself  in  the  "  spacious 
volubility  "  of  his  book.  But  even  as  expounded 


320  CAN  SUCH  THINGS  BE? 

by  its  author  it  does  not  explain,  and  in  fact  is 
incompatible  with  some  incidents  of,  the  occur 
rences  related  in  these  memoranda :  for  example, 
the  sound  of  Charles  Ashmore's  voice.  It  is 
not  my  duty  to  indue  facts  and  theories  with 
affinity.— A.  B. 


THE    END. 


loo  v, 
7 


V 


\ 


